


lagniappe

by aphrodite_mine, mage_girl



Series: degustation [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, BDSM, Cannibalism, Complete, Cooking, F/M, Hedonism, Murder, Oral Sex, Riding Crops, Teacher-Student Relationship, everything is people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mage_girl/pseuds/mage_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The affair Alana and Dr. Lecter never quite had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the white of Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s shirt that caught her eye. A crisp white that shone against the darkening windows at his back. 

Every piece of him had been cultivated with the care one might place towards a bonsai -- clipped and trimmed within centimeters of the desired effect. The tie was the crowning piece. The tie that was the exact red of ochre, the red of a blood orange... the orange that was being meticulously segmented in his hands by a sharp sharp knife held by clever long fingers.

The tie, knotted where the crisp white met the flesh of his throat, caught her eye -- something in Alana’s mind read it as a signal, a sign. But of what? His eyes and his steady look certainly didn't give an answer. 

But it was an answer she wanted to uncover. Desperately. 

He wordlessly handed her one section of the blood red orange, his fingers brushing hers ever so casually, as if it were an accident. She knew, however, that every movement he made was controlled, was predetermined. He meant for her to feel the warmth of his fingers against the cool contrast of the orange slice. She knew he could feel the tremor of her fingers in return.

She knew, too, that as she was savoring the darkly sweet juice of the fruit, that he was savoring her. Consuming her. How did it feel, to the orange to be crushed, swallowed? Was it so delicious, so forbidden, so utterly thrilling? 

She swallowed convulsively, her lashes sweeping down to cover her eyes, as if she had a chance to hide her emotions from him, as if he hadn’t already stripped her down, each part identified and accounted for. Still. She caught the last drop of juice before it left her mouth, her tongue darting out to catch it. 

Hannibal’s eyes followed her movement, his body leaning back in his chair so he could take her in without obstruction.

Despite being wet with juice, she felt, compulsively, that her throat was dry. She swallowed again, searched for her voice. The room was cool, cold even. As unrelenting as his gaze. Somehow, she took comfort in it, spreading her palm on the chill kitchen counter. "Thank you," she said, finally, looking up and into his eyes. 

He smiled at her, his eyes momentarily warming, the glacial blue depths showing an oasis of sorts to her. “You’re welcome. I enjoy... feeding my guests.”' 

"I should feel honored, then," she managed, still leaning a little onto the solid surface, "to be on the receiving end of your palate." It was forward, perhaps, and she found herself biting her lip, maybe even coloring like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t every man who offered her strange fruit, who made her feel as bare and segmented as the remaining slices of blood orange sitting on the counter between them.

He smiled reassuringly at her. 'It was my pleasure. I have been accused of hedonism and I have to admit, I take a certain... delight in the pleasures of the senses. To share this with someone who understands and can relate, that's rare.” He stood up, then, pushing the chair back smoothly. “Come, would you like to listen to some music?”

She wasn't quite sure how much pleasure her senses could take, but wasn't about to admit as much to her gracious host. In fact, she was... curious about where, in fact, her limit lay. "I doubt there are many who could turn down an offer of pleasure, Hannibal,” she said, searching for that bit of daring and letting it speak, letting it claw it’s way out of her still-parched throat, “especially at your hand.”

He raised his eyebrows and his eyes warmed even more. She could swear she could _just_ see red glints within their depths. It was probably her imagination. Probably. 

“At my hand?” he questioned, smoothly, offering her one of his as he spoke. “Are you sure? Once that path is started, it is difficult to stop. Hedonistic pleasure is as addictive as... chocolate.”

She snorted, caught slightly off guard by his humor. At least, she _thought_ it was humor. "Well, I'm no Puritan. Not much has ever been gained by forbidding oneself from that which brings joy." 

''Joy?” he repeated, the word in his mouth like a lozenge slowly melting on his tongue. He paused, the momentary silence warming the air between them. “And what about pain?”

That word was sharp upon his tongue, said with the edge of razors and answering lines, thin red rivelets that trickled down skin.

She felt her eyelids flutter involuntarily. "I suppose it would depend on..." she swallowed, slowly rising from her own chair, "the particular brand." She considered pain -- something red-hot against her skin -- and chocolate. The cognitive dissonance resonated, somehow, when she watched Hannibal speak, his words as carefully planned as his clothing. 

''Music first, I think... and then, perhaps, we can explore further the other natures of hedonism. Follow my lead?” he asked, his fingers grasping the tips of hers. 

She could feel her eyes dilating, could feel the breathing rasp in her throat. _Oh, god._ She could feel herself falling backwards, backwards with nary a splash or a ripple into a dark tidal pool of desire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the night continues.

The music came from an honest to goodness old fashioned gramophone. She'd seen one in a picture, once. The record had been stored with care; the wax shone in the light and the needle was sharp as it hit the groove.

Dr. Lecter watched the record spin until the music started, slow and melancholy. As the cellos began their ascent, he turned to watch the expression on Alana's face. At the sight of her grimace, he allowed a small smile of amusement, his eyes catching hers. "Perhaps you are not a fan of the masters?"

"Sure I am," she retorted with a smirk on her face. "Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, a little CCR." She chortled at the flash of amusement that lit up his face. He gestured for her to sit on the loveseat in the corner, positioned to be near the fireplace and the Tiffany reading lamp.

"Ah," he replied, "but where would your _Rolling Stones_ be without the guitar -- an instrument of the Renaissance?" He held up a single finger, indicating that the conversation should pause while the concerto moved through dark percussives, which were then echoed in the plucking of cello strings. "These techniques you triumph are not so innovative, perhaps, as they seem."

"Oh, I know that," she replied, enjoying the verbal repartee. "The best metal music gives a nod to classical roots. After all, think of 'The Ride of the Valkyries' and, perhaps, the music of Metallica." She could see she surprised him. She wondered if any of his previous guests -- _a guest_ , is that what she was? -- had been so knowledgeable about music. Or so bold. Or, perhaps, watching his eyes narrow in challenge, so foolish.

Hannibal arched an eyebrow, far more amused than actually offended at Alana's intelligence and unwillingness to be schooled. It would be foolish in his eyes to give in to the first contradictory voice she came across. It was... part of what he found so intriguing about Alana. She wasn't interested in Hannibal in the same way some of the other students were. "The best metal -- as you say -- also induces a fine headache." Hannibal smirked. "Perhaps pain _does_ interest you." He spoke lightly, perhaps joking, perhaps not. He gave nothing away, kept his cards so close to his chest no one else even knew he was playing a game.

"A lady never tells," said Alana, as primly as she could manage. 

Her voice reminded Hannibal of high tea, immaculate dress whites, and Mary Poppins. He gave an inward roll of the eyes at the last thought and said, silkily, "A lady also doesn't pish posh music from those gifted by the gods." He wanted to see what card she laid down next, so to speak.

"Maybe a lady doesn't entertain invitations to listen to music or engage in hedonism alone with their esteemed professor, either," she paused, licked her lips slowly and pressed them together.

Hannibal watched her tongue dart out and moisten her lips. He paused to listen to the music crescendo before its final measures. Alana lowered her eyes, letting the cellos’ tones wash over her, vibrate through her and leave her trembling with nerves.

It was, she admitted to herself, a powerful piece, but a certain amount of that power was most definitely due to Hannibal's presence near the gramophone. The record started to hiss, and for a moment, Hannibal didn't move. His eyes remained on her.

Then he strode over to the gramophone, took the record off and put it back in its slipcover and, after a pause, chose another record. The needle dropped down neatly and the music of “Bolero” began. He turned to her, then, and offered his hand. "Do you dance?" he asked. 

Alana gazed at him, her eyes wide and dilated. "I... I've danced a turn or two." 

Hannibal hummed in response. "I'll guide you, then." She stood up, stumbled a little, and when his arm went around her waist, she felt as though she was drifting off at sea.

Drifting... but steadied, somehow. He was solid. Warm. _Intensely_ warm. He held her for a few measures as the music played out the strong rhythm. She could feel it, counterweight with the pounding of her blood (and his). On the next up beat, they took off. Not fast, but dizzying.

She followed his lead, her steps matching his, her turns as graceful as a swan on a lake. She could feel the heat of his body, could smell the scent of him and was painfully aroused. She hoped he couldn't smell her, couldn't somehow taste the desire emanating from her body. From the answering steps and line of his own body, she knew he had to be well aware of her arousal and was toying with her, playing her like the violins in the music.

"The tango," he said, gently, his voice smooth against her ear, "while not the most historically accurate choice for this music selection, does afford us an opportunity the evening hasn't lent us thus far." Hannibal inhaled deeply, smelling notes of artificial citrus and vanilla in her hair -- and underneath _that_ the purer, duskier smell that was entirely organic and entirely human. "The bolero itself is a far livelier dance," he lowered his voice, his lips now brushing the shell of her ear. He pressed into her, his hand firmly at the small of her back. "If you can believe that."

Alana swallowed. Was this a signal? Was this a sign? She wasn't sure. Static from her emotions and anxiety scrambled any clarity she thought she had. "Livelier... well, then... this is... this is good." She couldn't help but quiver against him, feeling like a rabbit trapped with no way out, the fox waiting patiently in front of her. She wasn't sure if he was aroused. She couldn't feel any physical evidence against her, and pressed so closely, intimately, against him as she was, she'd have known.

She would have, that is, if he let her. "Good," he repeated, her word becoming provocative coming from his mouth. "Is that your assessment of our adventure into hedonism this evening altogether? Or do you insist on curiously mainstream ideas in this as well?" Hannibal could feel his lips twist in a smile. The music slowed, but he did not let her go. He was enjoying the feeling of her body against his, of her obvious arousal, and her attempts to ignore it. And wasn't that the purpose of this evening? Pleasure?

She gathered her courage together and whispered, "I'm willing to push beyond conventionalism." 

Hannibal allowed himself to tangle his fingers in her hair, to move his hand down the back of her neck, down her back, feeling each vertebrae as he went along. He ended with his hand just above the curve of her buttocks. He smiled as he felt her instinctively press against him, her pubis seeking contact with his own. He could smell her arousal; she smelled of musk and vanilla and it was bringing out other hungers in him. This evening then was well worth the risk; the empirical evidence was clear to him. Alana would be a delicious gift to himself. He would enjoy unwrapping each layer, stripping away the skin of every civility, revealing her primal inclinations for him to... feast upon.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of the needle scratching at the end of the record seemed to wake Alana up as if she’d been dreaming the whole time. She stood quietly in Hannibal's arms, pressed up against his chest, her mind not thinking of anything but the music and feeling the heat of the man against her.

She took a moment to breathe, willing her heart to slow its mad thumping, willing herself the strength to step away. They had not discussed any terms of the evening beyond its premise and the last thing Alana wanted to do was make a fool of herself by doing something like kissing Hannibal's cheek.

"Well, that was....educational," she said, clearing her throat and stepping back, wanting a little distance between herself and him. She figured they were past dissembling but she needed to take that moment and reassert control over her actions.

Dr. Lecter allowed the action and then some, taking a step back to echo hers. "You are overwhelmed," he stated. He raised a hand to brush lightly at her hair, which must have been a mess. It wasn’t -- she knew that, logically -- but the chaos inside of her had to present itself somehow, didn’t it? "Tell me, Alana, have I overstepped? Would you prefer if we continued our little adventure another night?" 

He was cool, polite. And _genuine_ , Alana realized, somehow not surprised at all.

"I... No. You haven't overstepped," she said, her voice steady. She was able to essay a faint grin and was pleased and relieved when he smiled back at her. "I've enjoyed this very much but perhaps... perhaps a little too much. You are as heady as the finest brandy. I might have indulged a bit too much tonight."

"Ah," he answered, moving to touch her chin, lifting her face towards his, "such is the nature of indulgence." His eyes narrowed, deadly intent on her. "We shall have to build up your tolerance, mmm." He kept the small distance between them, and the air around Alana was rapidly cooling.

Alana could feel the warmth of his fingers on her jaw, and she resisted the urge to turn her head and kiss the center of his palm. Instead, she broke free of his grasp with a small shake of her head and an impish smile. "Best be careful for what you wish for, then. I might grow to have quite the ability to maintain sobriety with whatever you choose to indulge with me.”

Hannibal laughed, for the first time since the evening had started. The sound was warm -- like hot liqueur over ice. "As if the opportunity and obligation to perpetuate my intentions could ever be a bad thing." His _intentions_? Alana swallowed. "No, Ms. Bloom, I am quite confident that whatever degree of sobriety we maintain, this is only the first of our many nights spent in pursuit of pleasure."

"Well, then," Alana heard herself say in her brisk, no nonsense voice and winced inside her head. She sounded so damn _serious_ sometimes. "With that, I should be headed back home. I have another paper to write and I swear that the doctor overseeing my recent assignment has something against me. I've never had to deal with someone so rude in all my life. I'll be happy when I'm put onto another rotation somewhere else. I'll even take the graveyard shift, if that would get me out of his area."

"I might speak with him." Hannibal placed a hand on her back, beginning to step towards the door and guiding her in that same direction. "Of my own volition, of course." He watched Alana's face, and smiled slightly at her concerned expression. "I would hate to lose the sight of you in evening light."

"I'm not sure that would do any good. He is a particularly stubborn man who doesn't believe in social niceties or pleasantries." Alana sighed and then smiled up at Hannibal. "Please, it's just another couple of weeks. I've told myself that when I'm done, I can treat myself to a nice glass of wine and a bubble bath." She laughed in bemusement. "Why did I say that? I'd better be careful or else you'll know all of my secrets."

Something shifted in Hannibal's face, but when Alana looked closer, it was gone. A shadow, perhaps. A trick of the light. "More indulgence," Hannibal said, shaking his head, _tsk_ ing her with a smile. "But secrets are my speciality, Alana. Never keep something so delicious as a glass of wine and bubble bath to yourself."

"Even if it's wine from a box and bubble bath from the Princess collection at Target?" teased Alana, delighting in the pained look on his face. "Hey, sometimes it's fun mingling with the hoi polloi."

"What is mingling, if not practice." Hannibal opened the door with a flourish, bowing slightly. "Alana," he said, nodding to her. "I hope to see you again soon. Quite soon." After pausing a moment, that shadow of light passed over his face once again, and Dr. Lecter added, “Perhaps that pesky professor of yours will see the light."

"I wouldn't bet on it. It'd take a two by four across the back of his head to get the point across," muttered Alana, with a smirk. "This was a pleasure... when I have some free time, I'll give you a call. Perhaps we could take in an art show." 

Hannibal nodded his head. "Perhaps. I'll wait until you get to your car. Have a good night, Alana. Pleasant dreams." 

Alana smiled and said, "Thank you again for the invitation and the dance." She turned and walked to her car, unlocking the door, and waving to him before bending her head and stepping inside.

Hannibal watched as she drove away, the tail lights flaring red in the distance. His face was thoughtful as he retraced his steps to where his laptop was. He turned it on, typed in his password, and logged onto the staff page of the hospital. Ah, yes. There he was; the man who Alana was having such difficulties with right now. Hannibal remembered him as standoffish, smug, and the worst of snobs. Hannibal studied his picture for a moment, then shut down his laptop. He had some preparations to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite short. Consider it aperitif to the chapters that follow.

Hannibal is a most meticulous man. 

He has spent years honing his skills, branding himself as someone with an eye for detail, with just the right touch to balance any equation. A lesser man might have tipped his hand, creating a mess out of something that was meant to be exquisitely detailed and scrupulously handled. Hannibal never considers himself lesser by any means.

Nothing must be out of place or out of step. From the restaurant to which he considered inviting the doctor who was currently giving Alana such grief, to every single step and procedure. It is an intricate dance. A dance that had thrilled him every time he began the opening cue.

*

That night and the nights that follow them seem empty in comparison to the one Alana has just spent. She spends most of each day on campus or in rotation, curled up in a corner of the library with her glasses, a huge pile of books and a headache that only manages to dissipate in the dredges of her third beer of the night.

Hannibal doesn’t stray far from her mind. There are times she thinks she sees him -- always out of the corner of her eye, and always moments too fleeting to truly judge.

Then: the blessing and curse of psychiatry. She wonders why. Why is it Dr. Lecter of all possible paramours whom she wishes to see? Why is her mind convinced that he _is_ there, just unreachable. Untouchable. The answers are so obvious, Alana has to shake her head and laugh. The sound isn’t yet bitter. 

*

The whispers curl towards Hannibal, fingers of smoke bearing the essence of man. 

This particular doctor, a Dr. Smythe, fancies himself to be a connoisseur of the finer things in life. He drives a Mercedes CL63 AMG Coupe. He dresses in bespoke suits and shirts. He has on staff at his luxurious home a chef, a butler, a housekeeper and a gardener. He is heir to a large medical firm and receives monthly checks simply for showing up at Board of Director meetings. Smythe is the one who, according to rumor, purchased through auction a pair of rare Renoir originals last month.

Dr. Lecter’s lip curls as he collects the murmurs surrounding this man; a discreet question here, a delicate inquiry there, and the information slowly trickles forth. Enough for him to form a picture of a man who has grown up accustomed to wealth, to a life of material accumulation. Enough for him to form a picture of a man who will not take pain or discomfort well. 

Enough to spark the red flicker deep in Hannibal’s eyes. He settles on the finest French restaurant in the city, after all, Smythe would hardly anticipate less. Reservations for two, then. A chef’s table for the epicurean feast. This would be... delightful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to drool over Smythe's fancy wheels? [Check them out.](http://www.mbusa.com/mercedes/vehicles/model/class-CL/model-CL63)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctors go to dinner while Alana enjoys a night in.

Alana acts with the consciousness in which she does everything. The conscious choice of thought followed by the conscious, deliberate action. She lies in bed (twin, jersey sheets) in her apartment (small, spartan, not worth the additional debt she’ll be facing in a few years) unable to sleep despite three hours of studying and two beers under her belt. _You’re being silly,_ she tells herself when she shifts underneath the covers and self-consciously avoids brushing her hand across her mound in the process. _In fact, you’re bordering on ridiculous._

The forced denial of sexual fascination has the tendency, Alana knows, to make a mountain of a molehill -- and the very fact that she finds herself so tentative to give in to this fantasy has caused it to bloom behind her eyes and between her legs. 

*

The courses so far had lived up to Hannibal’s expectations. There was a flute of champagne and amuse-bouche to start things off right. The smoked salmon pate with salmon roe on a crisp crouton was delicious -- simple flavors not obscured by spices. This was followed by the first course, an appetizer of venison carpaccio, and then by the second course, which was a creamy soup in which a single large prawn had been placed. 

As the remains of their soup are whisked away, Hannibal exchanges small words with the doctor -- keeping their dialogue to the pithy, despite his desire to know more about this mock-up of a man. A fresh bread basket is set in place, and the third course is placed before them. This is a fresh raspberry sorbet: just tart enough while retaining the sweetness of the berry.

Hannibal scoops his sorbet in small servings, lingering over each spoonful. He eyes the doctor, unimpressed as Smythe quickly eats the sorbet and tears a roll in half, leaving crumbs on the white linen in front of him. The wine, Hannibal notes again, inhaling the rich aroma, is a crisp white that complemented the salmon and soup beautifully. An interesting juxtaposition, to be sure, with the venison, but Hannibal is a man who appreciates daring.

“How are the newest batch of students getting along?” asks Hannibal as their empty sorbet dishes are taken away, their wine glasses refilled. 

The doctor grunts. “Each year, I hope there is someone who has some brains and determination, but each year, I am disappointed. I shouldn’t get my hopes up like I do. It must be the optimist in me.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, interrupted for the moment by the arrival of the fourth course: a delicate dish of scallops paired with cauliflower puree and a fluid line of truffle oil. He pauses, allowing the doctor’s words to linger between them, clashing with the kind scent of the dish. Hannibal takes a bite of scallop, nodding in appreciation. After another sip of wine, he responds, “There must be a student or two that meet with your stringent qualifications. Perhaps a young lady or man who has shown promise.”

The doctor rolls his eyes and attacks his scallops with the edge of his fork. Hannibal forebears from closing his own eyes in disgust and glances to the side to meet the aghast expression of the maitre de. The man looks like he is going to faint. 

“Perhaps you’d like to join me on a rotation or two. Then you can see for yourself the ineptitude of these interns,” mutters the doctor as he stabs at the scallops and scrapes the puree to the side in disgust after taking a bite. 

*

It begins as it always does: the routine now bizarrely familiar in Alana’s mind. She sits across from Dr. Lecter in his office, the leather cool and slightly sticky as she shifts. 

Alana is naked.

The power dynamic is clear -- this is more than a doctor and patient, a professor and student; this is a man, clothed and watching, and a girl, stripped bare. She is here, quite simply, for him to consume. 

Her sheets rustle as Alana shifts again, determined this time to stay in the moment, not to overanalyze herself past the point of desire. Fantasies, she knows, are natural. Are healthy. Still... she shuts her eyes tight against the dim light that leaks into her room from the hallway. She tugs the sheet to her chin, hiding her body from the chill air. She bites her lip as she moves her hand from where it rests on her belly to creep lower, brushing her fingertips over the curls and into the dark.

He watches her, and the first touch is electric shock.

*

Wine glasses are replaced by clean ones and a rich Merlot is shown to Hannibal, who nods his approval. The bottle is uncorked and the heady red wine poured into the two glasses.

The plates are taken away and the fifth course set in front of them. Hannibal takes a bite of the reindeer meet and silently gives thanks to chefs who are daring in their gastronomic choices. He may not enjoy his company, but he enjoys the crunch of the sugar beans and the dark Merlot intermingled with the richness of the meat. His taste buds are satisfied. 

He says, mildly, “I appreciate the invitation but would not want to abandon my own interns. I understand Alana Bloom is in your rotation right now?” He drops the name before pausing to cut another bite of meat. “She struck me as a particularly adept student.” 

The doctor pushes away his mostly uneaten serving of reindeer meat and contemptuously snorts. “Adept. You must be getting soft, Dr. Lecter. She is quarrelsome, aggressive, and unladylike. She’s only with me one more week, and I say _good riddance_. I feel for whomever has her next. It will take the life out of them.”

Hannibal merely smiles as their plates are cleared and the sixth course, the pre-dessert course, is served. A single chocolate truffle garnished with real gold is brought on dessert plates to their table. Hannibal takes a bite, closing his eyes in appreciation. The earthy taste of the truffle and the richness of the dark chocolate combined is most satisfying. He opens his eyes to see the doctor -- Hannibal maintains a straight face, though perhaps the doctor can feel his gaze cool -- put his whole truffle in his mouth and ponderously chew. He looks like an overindulgent chipmunk.

Their pre-dessert plates are cleared and more wine poured. The seventh and final course is served. It is a pair of decadent desserts, each one a dainty slice of chocolate cheesecake topped with raspberry sauce and chocolate shavings. Hannibal takes up his dessert fork and cuts a small portion off. It tastes, quite simply, as good as it looks. He eats the dessert quickly, taking small bites and finishes his final glass of wine. Coffee is brought to the table and poured into small china cups.

Hannibal sips at his as the doctor refuses the bitter drink, instead pouring himself another glass of wine. Hannibal studies this man, this doctor, over the edge of his coffee cup. After a moment, he signals for the check.

*

After, she feels comfortable. A feeling of fullness after an excellent meal. Still, Alana knows the unease in accepting the truth that it was -- _is_ \-- Dr Lecter’s self, his essence that she imagines. The taboo of the fantasy, Alana has to accept, is as much of the allure as the thing itself. The man himself. 

It is easy -- too easy -- to fall asleep, then, tugging her limp sheets up around herself, studying forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about the sumptuous seven-course meal Dr Lecters and Smythe partake in, follow [this link](http://chocolateoblivion.blogspot.com/2011/02/fine-dining-seven-course-menu.html). Their meal looked so delicious, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to share such a treat with Hannibal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW for this chapter: Includes a non-detailed account of murder, preparations for cannibalism, and descriptions of blood.

A little flattery, a little appreciation of the doctor’s car, and Dr Lecter had successfully maneuvered a ride to the restaurant earlier in the evening. He’d parked his own car on the street and rang the doctor’s doorbell at the precise time he said he’d stop by. 

Seated in the magnificent (if showy) vehicle again now, Hannibal admits to himself that the buttery-soft leather seats and acoustics broadcasting faint classical music are perfect. As the car shifts into the doctor’s long drive, Hannibal slips his hand into his pocket. There, under the cover of darkness, a few deft moments go unnoticed and Hannibal douses the cloth with liquid from a small bottle, also pocketed. He counts the clicks as the doctor puts the car in park, _two, and_ it is easy, so easy to cover the man’s nose and mouth with the cloth he’s long kept hidden.

The doctor struggles, droops, and slumps over the steering wheel.

After that, the process is simple. The cloth returns to the small plastic bag, seals up, and goes back into his pocket. He reassures himself with a small pat that the vial is also there. He exits the car, closing the passenger door behind him with a quiet click. The drive is smooth under his feet as Hannibal rounds the car to open the driver’s side. He hoists the man out of the seat like a sack, and shoves him over to where Hannibal sat just moments before. Almost kindly, he fastens the doctor’s seatbelt. 

Settled now on the driver’s side, Hannibal again notes the fine contours of the leather seating. He starts the car and familiar notes fill the small space. He smiles and backs out of the driveway.

*

The beast, all shadow and flame, circles her. He slips in and out of the wood around them, sliding silently closer to set her skin alight with cold fear. She forces her eyes shut, but can still see him, still sense him, moving closer, closer still, until he is _inside_ her, reaching out and around and through. She breathes his breath, strangely cool and fresh and sharp. He tastes her, and she can feel the wet tongue inside and out at once. A noise: a long whimper or whine comes from her throat, but she does not know if the sound belongs to her. 

*

Unfortunately for him, but -- he admits -- fortunately for Hannibal, the doctor is beginning to regain consciousness. The deserted barn welcomes them, spacious and hollow and just waiting for something like this to make it special, to mark it forever.

The doctor struggles, still half-asleep, against the restraints Hannibal tightens across his arms and legs. He had only intended the drug to last a few hours, so this is expected. Fortunate, too, that the dose allowed Hannibal almost exactly the amount of time necessary to return the car to the doctor’s drive, prepare it, and make his way back to the barn.

He had run through the traces with the doctor’s exquisite vehicle: wiping down all surfaces before carefully reapplying the doctor’s prints to the wheel and the door handle before the heavy work of removing him from the car. He wore gloves and wiped down any space he had touched one more time before closing the door and dropping the keys to the ground next to the vehicle.

His own car took the two of them to the barn where his tools awaited them, gleaming in artificial light from their places on the bleach-white linen cloth. 

Now the doctor moves again, this time with a purpose. He is becoming aware, cognizant of what, perhaps, has befallen him. Eyes open, first one, then the other. Finally focusing and seeing Hannibal, seeing the sharp tips of the tools, the doctor screams.

*

Alana shifts, moaning in her sleep. She isn’t yet aware that she is dreaming, that the world she now knows is a world of her own making. She can feel the knife at her throat, real as anything, the prick of the first cut burning hot into her flesh. Blood gurgles forth, smooth and thick. 

She finds herself not struggling, or unable to struggle, or unwilling to. There is a part of her -- distant and sleeping, now -- that balks at this, that pushes back against the knife and shouts, her voice cut off by the swell of fluid red. 

There is another part of her, a part that she will rationalize and interpret away, that trusts the knife-bearer, that trusts the darkness. She can feel herself slipping away, and still smiles as she whispers “Please”.

*

The blood sluices off Hannibal’s hands in the shower. He had returned home with what he needed in a covered bucket. After carefully staging the doctor’s body in the barn and returning home, a hot shower gave him plenty of time to review the past few hours. Water caressing his body, Hannibal returns to the barn in his mind, smiling at the tableau that awaits him.

Hannibal is a most patient man. He draws out his pleasure, punctuated by the man’s responses -- gibbered and garbled words that end in screams or snot-filled heaves of breath. He is not disappointed. He introduces the good doctor to exquisite pain and agony, pleased when the flash of anger and horror in the doctor’s eyes becomes dull. Before the end, Hannibal etches the doctor’s chest with a sharp flechette, the blood running in trickles down ruined skin. A pause, then, to admire his art. The doctor looks at Hannibal and whispers through bruised vocal cords one word: “Why?”

Hannibal smiles. “Alana will be under my tutelage this next rotation. She will not be the death of me, but you, alas...” To punctuate the statement, he hoists the two-by-four he had set aside for this very moment. He raises it, swings expertly, and the thoroughly satisfying _crack_ echoes throughout the barn. The doctor’s head slumps forward, and Hannibal quickly finishes with the scalpel he had saved for the very last. A delicate brush across the doctor’s throat, blood blooming there, a thin line that smiles red. Hannibal listens for a heartbeat: there is none. It gives him no small pleasure to rid the world of such a man.

Dr Lecter walks across the barn, hearing nothing but the wind and the sound of various night creatures going about their business. He needs to get back to his house to clean up and put his delicacies away. Dr Smythe is no longer. He is now nameless, erased from humankind. A bucket of meat.

*

She awakens, panting.

Alana’s room is dark, still, but she can make out the shapes of her surroundings -- her desk, the computer light blinking; her reading chair; dresser; bookshelf; laundry waiting to be done. Her mouth is dry, her heart racing, and even as she settles back onto her bed, she realises (with the same sense that navigates the darkness) that she has been bow-string tight, her legs wrapped and wrapped in sheets, her pillows thrust to the floor.

“Okay,” she says, taking another breath. Another. “That was weird.”

She settles into the task of untwisting herself, taking note of the aching muscles she certainly hasn’t used studying. Her clock blinks 1:12 in a rhythm almost three times as slow as the blood whipping through her veins. _Damn power_. It must have gone out. Was there a storm?

 _There!_ Alana’s breath hitches and she spins around despite herself -- there is little space for logic and center in the dark. She could swear... and _there_ , she feels it again. The distinct impression of fingertips brushing the skin of her back, the exposed inches between a rumpled tank top and underwear.

“Okay,” she says, again. She doesn’t like the way her voice is swallowed up. 

*

Continuing to clean and scrub himself down, Hannibal lets the scent of pine and cedar wash over him. Any tension buried deep in his muscles washes away. 

He towels himself off, then chooses dark blue silk pajamas to wear. The clock steals his attention for a moment -- five in the morning. He has the day off.

The doctor had given the staff the night off and the house had been empty when he had come earlier the evening before. Hannibal wonders, idly, when someone will discover the keys lying on the ground outside of the car. He wonders when someone will discover the doctor absent from the house.

Downstairs, the bucket of parts awaits him. He finds himself untired still, strung with the thrill of all the evening held. Each piece is packaged, wrapped, and labeled before finding its place in his freezer. He has a most delicious dish in mind for the next time Alana accepts an invitation to dinner.

His labor done, Hannibal acquiesces to sleep. He retreats to his room, folds back the sheets to his bed, and slips in. He sighs with satisfaction. Dinner had been an epicurean delight; the restaurant a pleasant surprise he would have to repeat. And as for the after-dinner entertainment? Hannibal’s mouth curls up at the corners as he drifts nearer to sleep. It had been to die for, just as the doctor had so accurately predicted.

*

The morning has a strange other-worldly feeling to it, as if _this_ is the dream and not the real world. Alana blearily pours herself a cup of coffee, clinging to routine as a way to clear the cobwebs from her mind. She cannot shake the dream, and wonders what could have brought it on. Of course, there is no easy answer waiting for her. The mind -- almost especially her own -- remains closed. She rubs at her neck, stretching the muscles.

Slinging on boots and gathering her books and notes, Alana troops to class, stopping short and blinking for a long time at the notice taped to the closed door to the lecture hall. _Dr Smythe’s Monday lectures and office hours are cancelled. Please see your email for updates._


	7. Chapter 7

Wednesday morning, Alana wakes up to silence the imploring blare of her alarm and instead of lying in bed a few more minutes to prepare for the day, she reluctantly leaves the bed and checks her email. She wants to be sure she doesn’t make a trip onto campus for nothing. There is an email notification in her inbox and she reads it, breathing a sigh of relief. Class is scheduled as normal and there is a substitute professor teaching this day’s lesson. Good. Another student might have wanted the day off, but Alana isn’t paying out the ass to lie around.

Alana takes a shower, gets dressed, and hurriedly eats a granola bar as she gathers up her class work. She locks the door behind her and drives to school, wondering who is subbing for the class; it’s an advanced class -- Communication With the Criminal -- and it would have taken some effort to get a qualified teacher on such short notice. She can only think of possibly two or three who would be available, because while the department is certainly lauded, it is small, producing only one or two esteemed graduates each year. 

The walk is a short, brisk one. Despite her apartment’s size and general state of (lack of) maintenance, Alana is proud that she was able to secure one of the closest spots to campus, proud especially that between her student loans, on-campus work (she grades Freshmen papers and proctors exams), she isn’t coming out of her month-to-month too deep in the hole. That, of course, means that her living space is small and not exactly the type of place she’d be excited to bring someone -- let alone a guy. A small price to pay (literally!) for the other benefits.

By the time she has navigated the halls and stepped into the giant lecture room, Alana has nearly forgotten to expect a substitute. She slides into her usual seat near the front of the room (it really _is_ the best arrangement for retaining information and interacting -- when necessary -- with professors) and opens her notes to a fresh page before looking up to scan the room.

He must have been awaiting her attention. As soon as Alana’s eyes swing towards Dr Lecter, he takes a step toward her, nodding his head slightly in what could be a strange approximation of a bow. “What an exquisite surprise,” he says, face revealing of any thoughts, emotions, or motivations. 

Alana swallows and presses her notebook smooth. “Good to see you,” she says, hopefully offering nothing in return. She’s had a course with Dr Lecter before, but after the evening they shared (and her own fantasies, she reminds herself, drawing heat to the skin of her neck) she is unsure where they stand. It is a question that rarely has a clear-cut answer, and even more so where Hannibal Lecter is concerned.

Hannibal’s gaze flickers over the rest of the gathering crowd, but when he speaks, he still addresses Alana alone, his voice low and personal. “You’ll have to feign interest in my lecture, I’m afraid. My self-confidence would be quite bruised if I were to put a star student to sleep.”

“I’ll do my best,” Alana replies, trying to ignore the thrill that rushes through her when she realizes Hannibal is _joking_ with her. Practically repartee. 

“As you should.” To signal the start of the lecture, Hannibal clears his throat once and simply stands at the front of the lecture hall, still, his hands held loosely behind his back. Amazingly, the room begins to fall silent, and once the threshold is reached, Hannibal maintains his unanimous gaze, somehow, with each and every one of them, a moment, two, beyond the point of comfort. “You may have noticed that your regular professor is absent. Perhaps you did not, perhaps this is the first lecture you have attended in this course.” He does not pause for laughter, but some titters escape from the crowd. “For your benefit, and for those sitting around you, I shall explain: I am Dr Hannibal Lecter, and until the school receives word from your professor, I will take his place. Should the doctor remain _en absentia_ , the department may choose to seek a more permanent replacement, however this is no reason to neglect your studies. On the contrary, I suspect that I expect a great deal more from my students than your instructor. I expect,” here he pauses, taking another moment to lock eyes with what feels like the entire room, “success.”

*

Normally, after enduring an hour and a half of Dr Smythe’s barely-conscious-himself droning, Alana would simply pack up her things and leave (unless of course, she had a point of contention with some of his lecture. That, now that she considers it, happened quite a lot.) and she finds herself feeling like the shy schoolgirl, now, as she pulls her notebook to her chest and approaches the front of the room. Dr Lecter already has half a dozen students around him, asking questions about Dr Smythe (perhaps out of some sort of loyalty. Certainly not _interest_ ) or the lecture. One or two seem quite taken with Dr Lecter, and Alana has to check herself to be sure that same moon-eyed expression does not sit on her face. 

Maybe once, a long time ago, Alana might have been the sort of girl to write names in notebooks, hearts drawn around. She’s not sure she would recognize that girl if face to face with her, now. _Foolish_ , she thinks, which only serves to conjure up her own mistakes. 

“I have a question for you, Alana.” 

She blinks, and the small crowd has dissipated. Dr Lecter is at her side, his hand just now descending onto her shoulder. He is warm, today. “A quiz already, Dr Lecter?”

“I am certain you are prepared.” A half-smile passes over his features, and Hannibal takes a slow step towards the podium, Alana following almost automatically.

“Hit me with your best shot, Doctor,” Alana says, grinning, all thoughts of appearing silly or moon-eyed now far from her mind. 

“Very well,” Hannibal thumbs quickly through his lecture notes and presents Alana with a thin, glossy pamphlet. An art gallery, she reads, though one she hasn’t heard of. “Are you otherwise engaged this Saturday night, Ms Bloom, or might I have the pleasure of your company for dinner and a show?”

Alana raises an eyebrow, returning her gaze to the man before her. His expression is affect-less, as usual, but Alana thinks, or imagines, or _wants_ to see something behind the light in his eyes. Something she likes. “As I am your student now, Dr Lecter, I think the _ethical_ thing to do would be to turn you down. Perhaps even report this to the department.”

Hannibal’s gaze shifts, and he wordlessly takes the pamphlet from her hand, his fingers grazing hers. “With the professor absent without leave, I hardly think the board has the time or inclination to concern themselves with the consensual fraternization of teacher and student.”

“Is that what this is, Hannibal?” Alana asks, her hand still frozen, half-reaching, perhaps, for the warmth of Hannibal’s touch once more. “Fraternization?”

“That is one word for it, perhaps. There are many words for it, Alana, though there are times I think the unspoken far more powerful.”

She opens her planner, giving a show of considering the offer. “Some girls might be offended, you know. An art gallery? That’s a poor substitute for those thousands of words in my mind.” 

“You should remember then, that I have not extended this offer to _some girls_ , Ms Bloom. And consider as well that what I wish to communicate is not contained in the art itself.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast for the senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to anyone who has left little notes of encouragement -- and even impatience -- while waiting for a new chapter.

Alana walks into the restaurant after double-checking the address against the one Hannibal gave her. She dressed with particular care for this evening. Dinner and an art exhibit were events she normally didn’t partake in and she is excited and nervous for the evening to come. 

Hannibal is waiting for her just inside the entryway, and seeing him dressed in a finely cut dark blue suit with a snowy white dress shirt and windsor tie took her breath away. She looked down at her own dress; a gorgeous jacquard print in red with a rose motif throughout the fabric. She’d been pleased with her choice of dress when she got ready for the evening, but as she looks at Hannibal and his effortless elegance in a suit that whispers money and class, she feels entirely out of her depth.

Hannibal smiles down at her, taking in the lines of her dress, the way it hugs each curve. “You look lovely,” he tells her and she looks down, smoothing her hand over an imaginary wrinkle. 

“Thank you,” she says to him, smiling a little in return. 

“Shall we? I have taken the liberty of calling ahead and requesting a tasting menu for our enjoyment tonight. This restaurant has, indisputably, the best French cuisine in the city. I would like to enjoy tonight’s courses with you.”

Alana hesitates. She isn’t sure what to think; after all, she isn’t a child and has never before allowed someone to order for her. The last man who tried to order for her ended up eating alone for his efforts; Alana left him sitting there, walking out in disgust.

This, though... Alana has never been to a restaurant like this before. She looks around and notes the crisp white linen tablecloths and napkins folded into exotic shapes. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling glow with a subdued light and there is classical music piped in through the speakers. Alana is out of her depth with this, too. 

“I... thank you. That is very thoughtful of you.” Alana decides to retreat behind the fortress of politeness.

Hannibal nods his head. He is much too refined to call her on her bluff. He simply offers his arm and she tucks her hand against his elbow, her fingers curling around his forearm. 

*

Once the salad course is taken away, Hannibal lowers his fork and raises his eyes, pinning Alana to her seat. “Earlier,” he says, enunciating the words slowly. “You wanted to refuse me.” The statement does not leave opportunity for argument. Hannibal’s words are fact, something that Alana has often found refreshing, and now finds unnerving. “What made you change your mind?”

Alana sets her fork aside, enjoying the lingering taste of raspberry vinaigrette ghosting over her tastebuds. She traces the edge of her fork restlessly, giving away the state of her mind at his question.

“I’m not accustomed to this world,” she says bluntly, matching him look for look. “I grew up in a nice home and have eaten out at restaurants but this is somewhat out of my league. I’m used to men dressing in outlet store suits and thrift store finds. Your clothing is also out of my league. I’ve seen suits like that in glossy magazines, Dr. Lecter. I know there are boutiques where one can buy such finery, but I’ve never been in them. I couldn’t -- and still can’t -- afford to walk into the door. I’m a graduate student who is barely making it. I am juggling a budget that puts me on the razor’s edge of poverty. I’m used to men being my equal when it comes to money and clothing and entertainment. You are not like the men I’m used to.”

There is silence for a moment and Alana pushes down the voice inside that tells her she’s said too much; revealed too much. Will there be disdain from him? Will it show in his voice or perhaps will the warmth in his eyes grow cold and become ashes and memory? Alana swallows and raises her chin, reminding herself that she has every right to say what she thinks and how she feels.

Instead of glowering or rising to leave, Dr Lecter smiles. “I understand. I... forgive me, Alana. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or intimate that you are lesser than I. I simply wanted to share a meal with you and peruse some art and talk about... control... And... passion... and artistry. Please accept my apologies.”

Alana blinks. She smiles at the waiter who whisks away her empty salad plate and sets down a cold soup that, once she tastes a small sample of it, is delicious, having the flavour of beets in it.

“Thank you, Dr Lecter. This is a treat, please know that. I have never experienced a tasting menu like this and I’m enjoying myself. This cold soup is delicious. I look forward to the main course,” answers Alana, able to smile at him without any tension in her face. 

“Good. So... you allowed me to take control because you did not want to err or appear uncouth in my eyes?” He pauses, watching her eyes and tucking at his napkin absently. “I wouldn’t have thought that of you. I find that people who are willing to fling themselves out into the void and trust that Providence will provide a safety net are much preferable to those who refuse to take any risks at all. Don’t be afraid to launch yourself out into the void, Alana. I will always have a safety net in place.”

She listens to his words, thoughtful. He has her pegged, and she can’t -- nor does she want to -- deny it. “Consider this a trial run, then, Dr. Lecter. I don’t like to fall into safety nets I haven’t tested.”

“Fair enough,“ he says, verbally giving her room to step back. He pours another measure of wine into his glass and then, after seeing her signal to go ahead, into hers as well. 

Taking a sip of her wine and another spoonful of soup, Alana allows the silence to settle between them. She isn’t unnerved by it, and if Dr. Lecter’s countenance can be believed, he isn’t either. It is nice. A rare thing, and one that she appreciates. Still, their speeches are as enjoyable as their silences, so she breaks this one. “You seem... fixated on the idea of control.” She pauses, pondering how exactly to proceed. This isn’t exactly the sort of conversation she’s had _practice_ with. “Is that something you have... experience with?”

Dr. Lecter regards her with amusement. “Would you be afraid if I did?”

“Don’t bait me, Dr. Lecter,” says Alana, sharply. “I think we’re beyond that, now.”

Despite her response, Hannibal continues to smile. Instead of answering with another tease, he calmly lays his spoon beside his soup bowl and laces his fingers together, a fitting picture of composure. “I assume you mean, do I have experience in controlling _others_?” He lifts an eyebrow, carefully watching Alana’s response. 

The fear or panic or whatever it was that caused her outburst is still there, neatly tucked under the surface. She only nods, now, her gaze momentarily lowering only to snap back into place, locking eyes with him. 

“I am a doctor of psychology, Alana... and you will also become a doctor of psychology. We are granted the undeniable power of changing others’ lives for the better with our words, with our actions, with our decisions. The best of us," he spoke matter of factly, not _truly_ exalting himself, "are fully aware of the degree of our control, and so choose our words and actions carefully. We are like the finest neurosurgeons, using our words as scalpels to cut away the diseased portions of the mind." Hannibal demonstrated his point by lifting his knife to the air between them and marks the space with a delicate slice. "It may be a weakness that my experience in controlling such situations leaks over into my personal life. It colours my everyday world, Alana. It’s as dangerous as taking myself too seriously; as believing that I am a benevolent god to the afflicted.”

Alana nodded, all of this making sense to her and the last bit of reticence melts away. She is calm on the surface and throughout her entire psyche.

“I can never forget that my iron control has consequences not only for my patients but also for myself. I can trap myself into a life that allows for no frivolity, no breaking free of proscribed roles. It’s addictive to be in control and to bend the forces around me to allow myself unfettered freedom in influencing others’ lives. Please do let me know if I’ve become impudent in my treatment of you, Alana. To do so would be...rude.”

Alana smiles, briefly, and finishes her soup. She takes another sip of wine, rolling the liquid in her mouth, luxuriating in the richness and texture on her tongue. “I appreciate that, Dr. Lecter. Thank you. Control is...maybe that’s what drew me to psychology. I could have control and keep control over situations that were fraught with the possibility of chaos. I could take emotional outbursts and tame them. I could show my patients a better way, a more...controlled...way of letting their logic rule their emotions instead of the other way around. As a woman, it’s difficult to maneuver in the world of men. There are many traps, hidden and seen that could ensnare someone who wasn’t observant enough to sense them or see them. I refuse to become entangled in such traps, even one as sweetly laid as yours might be. Being treated as an equal and being shown a different world than I’d known is an elegant trap, Dr. Lecter. Most women would do almost anything to experience this. Most women would not want to leave such a trap.” Alana leaned forward and allowed her hand to briefly touch Hannibal’s. She reveled in the sudden flare of emotion in his eyes.

“I am not most women, Dr. Lecter. It would take a lot for me to give up the control I’ve fought so long to call my own.”

Hannibal’s fingers move just slightly in the answering lack of her hand over his. “Perhaps I owe you another apology, then, Ms. Bloom. While the temptation is there, to -- as you say -- lay traps and control those around me, it is far from my intent to cause you to feel as though you are merely one of a crowd. I have long thought you were exceptional, Alana. Not solely as a student, but as a woman. As a human being perhaps wielding a scalpel whose sharpness rivals my own.” He continues to watch Alana even as the waiter returns to exchange their soup for lean cuts of venison, thinly decorated with a pinkish sauce. Hannibal lifts his knife from where it lies and slowly runs his thumb along the blade. “You are no game to me, Ms. Bloom.”

The corners of her mouth lift. “Well, that’s a relief.” She allows herself to be momentarily distracted by her food, something Dr. Lecter is apparently unwilling to do. She feels his gaze on her -- light and cool, rather than heavy or constricting -- as she lifts a bite to her lips and chews. “You, ah, mentioned artistry, didn’t you, Dr. Lecter?” Perhaps it is cowardice, but Alana makes a swift feint in the direction of a subject change. Just enough to let her catch her breath. 

“I did,” says Dr. Lecter and he easily changed direction with her, giving no indication of noticing her retreat. “I thought I’d have this evening be a tour de force of sensations. Dinner and an art show that would encourage conversation.”

Alana raises her eyebrows as she carefully cuts into the main course. “So far, your plan has worked,” she says, corners of her mouth turning up into a wry smile.

Dr. Lecter returns her smile. “I must admit, it’s been more than I’d hoped it would be. But yes, artistry is a component that lies hand in glove with control and passion. An artist who has passion yet can funnel that passion into art is an artist I respect. I’ve seen artwork where there is lack of control, and it is distracting. I’m too busy dissecting the messiness of the work at hand, trying to interpret between the lines to enjoy the artwork. An artist who has that exquisite control over the passion allows me to lose myself in whatever sensation I’m being asked to feel. I can then interpret the art within the framework the artist has suggested and also my own interpretation outside of it.”

Alana nods. “I see where that makes perfect sense. There are artists out there who I’ve felt were squandering their skill, who I’ve been puzzled as to why they were so successful. I’ve seen better graffiti work on the subway! If I’m being guided through the landscape of the artist’s mind, however, it’s easier for me to stray from that path. I can reinterpret what I’m seeing, and can appreciate anew any variables I find.”

Dr. Lecter raises his fork in salutation. “Exactly, Alana. Exactly so. The artist I’ve chosen for us to see has everything we look for in an exhibit. Passion. Control. Artistry. I’m curious to see what your thoughts will be on her work.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Interesting themes for this evening, Dr. Lecter. Control. Artistry. Passion. Am I missing anything else?” Alana muses, finishing up her main course and taking a sip of wine.

Dr. Lecter smiles. “All in good time, Alana. How is your meal thus far?”

“Lovely. It’s a wonderful experience that I’ll return to in my memory time and time again. Thank you,” she says.

“You’re very welcome. I do believe dessert is next and then the art exhibit awaits our examination,” Dr. Lecter says, leaning back as the waiter removes his plate from in front of him and sets down a small dessert plate with a cream puff generously coated with a dark chocolate sauce.

Alana thanks the server as her plate is removed and a similar dessert is placed in front of her. She takes a careful bite of the delicate pastry and smiles with unabashed delight. “This is marvelous! So sublime,” she notes, licking her lips to catch any loose crumbs.

Hannibal watches her, his eyes hooded so she cannot see what lies in their depths.

“Sublime,” he repeats, his voice a dark caress.

Alana hopes her involuntary shiver will be mistaken for the coolness in the room. She catches a flicker of something in his eyes, though, and knows her hope is in vain.


	9. Chapter 9

The gallery welcomes them with a brightly-lit but sparse entryway. A large crowd has turned out for the event, a showing of mixed media by a local artist. There are no pamphlets handed out at the door, but a silent waiter extends a tray of tall glasses of red wine, inclining his head first to Hannibal and then to Alana. “Is this your first art show, Ms. Bloom?” Hannibal murmurs as he makes a selection of two glasses near the edge of the tray.

Handing one glass to Alana, he takes a long moment to inhale at the rim of the glass, unafraid to allow a brief expression of bliss across his features.

She takes a small sip of her own, trying not to wince at the bitter taste. A long night of wine, this has been. “The first that carried any degree of professionalism, anyway,” she replies, looking up at her professor and looping an arm through his. “You’ll play tour guide, won’t you?”

“Oh, but this is hardly a tourist attraction, Alana. I will be happy to make introductions, but you must look within yourself for guidance.”

She narrows her eyes, allowing herself to smile once she sees the small smirk on his face. “Tease,” she coos, tugging at his elbow playfully. “In all seriousness, Hannibal, that safety net you mentioned would be appreciated.”

Alana and Hannibal walk around the exhibit, pausing in front of a painting or two, taking the time to study the picture and decipher what message the artist is communicating to the audience.

Alana likes the feel of Hannibal’s arm under her hand as they wander around, taking their time in a leisurely stroll. She is aware of her own body, as a woman, for the first time in a long time. She can feel her dress swinging at her knees, the fabric swirling with every step.

Her heels click along the floor, echoing in the room, and she is aware that her height is raised enough so she could comfortably tuck her head under Hannibal’s chin.

Not that she _would_ , of course, but the thought is enough to raise the color in her cheeks. “Look at this one,” she says, obviously, as they are both paused in front of one of the few sculptures in the exhibit. It consists of wire and fabric, twisting together in a kind of arc.

“Do you see humanity here, Alana?” Dr. Lecter asked, tracing the shape in the air next to the form.

Alana glances at the placard that reads, simply, “Humanity” and tilts her head to the side, studying the sculpture. 

“Yes,” she replies, decisively, fingering a trailing edge of fabric that flutters in the slight breeze from the air conditioning. “I see the construction of ourselves. Fabric and form that disguises our true nature.”

Hannibal glances at her, his eyebrows raised. “Impressive. All that from chicken wire, glue, and bits of cloth?”

Alana shrugs. “We are all star stuff. Bits and pieces that make the whole. I can see the correlation.”

“And what is the disguise _you_ put around your star stuff, Alana?” He touches an errant hair, trails his fingers lightly down the side of her bodice. “And which, I wonder, is the true humanity. The wire, or the air beneath it.”

“Doctor Lecter, it would be impertinent of me to reveal everything of who I am,” retorts Alana, her voice only shaking a little. Some inner demon prods her to add, “With or without clothes.”

Dr. Lecter smiles and the smile makes Alana step back, reflexively. It is the smile of a predator who is focused on the weakest prey in the pack.

“Jung imagery, Alana? Or are you… intimating something?” He croons, his voice pitched low enough so only her ears could pick up his words.

Alana opens her mouth to make a reply when the room fills with the ethereal twinkle of silverware making repeated contact with champagne glasses. Alana looks around to try and determine who could be initiating such a thing, and is drawn (simultaneously, it seems, with the rest of the event-goers) to what could be called the front of the room. A young, well-dressed woman holds her glass high. As the din subsides, she speaks calmly, addressing them all.

“Welcome,” she says, smiling, “to the opening night of my dear friend, Camille LeFarge’s exhibit. You may know her from installations in our public library, but I’m sure that many of you are encountering her work for the first time tonight. I’d be remiss in attempting to summarize her life, so in lieu of further introduction, the artist herself.” 

From a side room obscured by a curtain, a tall, willowy woman emerges. Hannibal’s arm slips around Alana’s waist as the artist steps forward, preparing to speak.

Alana reminds herself that it would be unprofessional to lean into Dr. Lecter’s body, to soak in the heat emanating from him, and turns her attention as best she can to the artist regarding them all with eyes that show nerves and excitement.

“I am so pleased to be here, and so honored to have been asked to display my works. I am proud to represent artists from within the multi-ethnic, queer community, and also artists living with mental illness. My work reflects the tumultuous relationship I have with my inner self, and maybe… maybe you might find a kinship there as well.”

She gestures to the sculpture Alana and Dr. Lecter had just discussed, and still stand near. “This one, which I call ‘Humanity’, is my reminder that despite outward appearances, we are all the same inside… and that given the chance, we can become more than what was originally thought of us.”

Camille LeFarge inclines her head at the applause. “Thank you for joining me tonight. I’d love to talk to you about any of my art. If you have questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” She takes a long breath, exhaling with what appears to be some effort. “People have asked me why I’ve chosen to be an artist, why I do this.” She pauses again, looking down and then back up. Her gaze, now, is fierce as a hawk’s. “I am an artist and I had no choice. This is who I am, just as the mental illness I live with wasn’t a choice and is part of who I am. People treat those of us who live with mental illness poorly at times, and I’ve found that the only way to take control of how I have been treated is to start the conversation in my own words. Thank you.”

“Well,” Hannibal asks, casually leaving his arm in place, even gently moving his thumb against her side, “any questions for the artist? This is a rare opportunity, you know. To discover the true inspiration for something we can normally only guess at.”

Alana turns toward him and smiles. “I’d like to look around a bit more first, if that’s all right with you.”

“My dear Alana.” There is that smile again, so dark but so inviting. “You hardly need to ask permission.” Almost contradicting his words, Hannibal uses his current position to guide her gently to another piece, this one a painting with assorted items glued to it.

“Is that… garbage?” Alana finds herself asking, leaning close to the composition to get a closer look. “What sort of power does she get from _this_ conversation?”

Hannibal shrugged. 'I would think, given the speech she just made, this might be her interpretation of how people view those living with mental illness. See? The painting itself is beautiful. And then, she glues… these pieces to it.”

Alana nods, seeing what she thinks the artist intends. The painting itself was gorgeous and she mentally commends the artist for manipulating her emotions. She is… irritated at the garbage that is glued haphazardly over the careful brush strokes. It is a jarring contrast and puts into the perspective that Hannibal suggests, a melancholy portrait overall.

“Do you…” Alana begins carefully, not sure yet if she wants to broach this subject herself. “Do you think that she _has_ gained control, by directing the conversation? Or is it an elaborate form of… delusion?” She finds herself hyper-aware of Hannibal’s arm still around her. She is quickly warming, and not from the temperature controlled room.

“If it is delusional, it is a very skilled delusion,” replies Hannibal. He leans into her, his body pressing against hers; Alana wildly thinks she might burst into flames at any moment. “I think she is in perfect control.” Hannibal says, his arm firm around Alana’s waist, his fingers brushing the edge of her breast. “And I think this has been a most satisfying evening.”

Alana licks her lips quickly, a nervous action to hide how intensely she is thinking. “It has been truly lovely, despite my earlier reservations,” she says finally, “Does that mean…” she trails off again, caught in her head. “Is the evening _really_ over, Hannibal? Or do you have more up your sleeve?”

Hannibal appears about to reply when the artist walks up to them, smiling delightedly at Hannibal and giving a polite smile to Alana. “Dr. Lecter! How good of you to come,” she says, and Hannibal releases Alana’s waist to hold out both his hands to the tall woman with multi-colored dreads bound up and then cascading down her back in a rainbow waterfall.

“I could not not come and see your debut into the higher echelons, my dear. Congratulations. Your show is a triumph,” says Hannibal, looking around, taking yet another look at the various pieces around them and the discretely placed stickers marking that they had been claimed for purchase by one of the exhibit’s patrons.

“Oh… that’s such a kind thing for you to say! I thank you for it. And, thank you for helping me after I came up North. It was… difficult at that time,” Camille says, her voice soft.

“Shame on my rudeness!” Hannibal exclaims. “Camille, this is Alana. Alana, this is Camille LeFarge. She has come our way after the Katrina hurricane, and we are most fortunate to have her with us,” he introduces, nodding to each woman in turn.

“Your artwork is amazing. There is much more than meets the eye to your pieces. I have enjoyed your exhibit very much,” Alana says graciously, inwardly quivering. Hannibal knew this artist? This was a setup from the beginning? She feels her face heat up from misplaced embarrassment.

Hannibal looks at Alana’s face and interprets her expression with ease. “I am out with Alana tonight at her forbearance. I planned dinner and then wanted to take in your show, so invited her to that as well. It was conspiracy without thought.”

Alana manages a smile and turns to Camille. “Ah, we cannot help but manipulate our companions. Doctor Lecter does have an advantage over me, however; I am but a graduate student, still learning my craft.” Carefully keeping her gaze from Hannibal’s, Alana hopes the chiding hits its mark.

If Camille is bewildered by the exchange, she hides it well. Hannibal shakes her hand once more, assuring her that the exhibit had been a revelation and that he could not wait to see more. Alana nods in agreement and, his arm returning to her waist, allows herself to be lead to the door.

Once in the outside air, Hannibal regards her thoughtfully. “You still have a lot to learn, yes?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I believe myself ready for just about anything, Doctor Lecter."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with us through some difficult times. We haven't given up on this story--and we hope you haven't either!

Alana can still feel the tension of their little encounter. Strange, she thinks, that his _words_ can have the same effect on her that the _touch_ of other men does. Perhaps not so strange after all, since his touch nearly overwhelmed her. Perhaps Hannibal is… _more_ of a man than what Alana is used to. She finds herself thinking that she can get used to that.

As the chill air outside cools Alana's bare arms, she shivers. "You mentioned drinks, Doctor Lecter?"

"Indeed," he murmurs, taking the liberty of draping his tailored suit jacket over her shoulders. She opens her mouth to object, but there is no sense in it. Hannibal, it seems, considers everything, and is rarely wrong. Much to Alana's chagrin. "Would you object to retiring to my home, Ms. Bloom?" He echoes her familiarity, and the intimacy of it--somehow--makes her shiver more than the air ever could. "I've a stunning vintage I'd like to try on you."

Alana _hesitates_. She wants very badly to say yes, that much is clear, and that alone is enough to make her leery; her reaction isn't her usual response to a man's bold suggestion and what surely lies beneath it. Still. There is the element of cat and mouse, here. She can feel it in her bones. The part of her that remains _unyielding_ , the part that won't back down even for her own _good_ , is sitting up and taking notice, so to speak. It shows in the dilation of her eyes, if only she could see herself. She can _feel_ it, though, in the warmth between her thighs, the wetness that she feels. She wants to be mortified. But is mortified, instead, that she doesn't.

She supposes she'll be quite the study in going where angels fear to tread. Then again, she is no angel, and she fears no man.

"I'm not entirely sure that's an… _appropriate_ offer, Doctor Lecter," Alana allows, licking her lips slightly. She swallows hard, and knows that her act makes her all the more utterly transparent. Still, Hannibal plays along.

He smiles, gently securing his arm through hers. "Ms. Bloom, if you were seeking an _appropriate_ evening, I am afraid that you lost your path some time ago."

In that case… Alana tightens her grip on Hannibal's arm for just a moment. A small display of trust, of shared moments, of--perhaps--desire. He catches her eye with his, and Alana knows of a certainty that she will continue on this course. That she had, in fact, chosen this path long ago. That she had been wanting this for longer than she had words for it.

"You should know, I'm no great fan of wine."

"Perhaps I can surprise you."

"Perhaps you will."

\--

They agree to meet up at Dr. Lecter's house; logistics dictate that there is no need for Alana--or Hannibal--to retrace their steps at the end of the night to return and pick up their cars. 

Alana drives slowly, methodically, to his home. One part of her is going on desperately, wanting, demanding to know what has gotten into her. Another part of her is responding, "nothing, _yet_." And at that, a giggle bubbles up, sounding strange in the thick silence surrounding her. Still another part, the part that is holding onto everything with sheer bravado, ignores it all and concentrates on driving without getting into an accident. She barely recognizes but still acknowledges the part panting softly in anticipation--want and need curling in her stomach, and lower. Alana _could_ pretend it is the alcohol in her system. She could tell herself that she'd had too much to drink and her choices were compromised. But. But the cold, logical, ruthless side of her cuts that premise to razor shreds. These choices are hers to make and hers to break. She is walking into the darkness that pools in front of her because she _wants_ it. Because she desires it.

Alana meets her eyes in the rearview mirror and notes the blown pupils, the feverish gaze of someone caught up in passion, or perhaps addiction. She supposes it is an appropriate parallel. She is, after all, getting caught up in something. That is true no matter which angle she chooses to look from.

Hannibal must know a shortcut, because as Alana pulls up to his house (parking, politely, against the curb) she notices that his car is already parked in the driveway, and the glow of lights is pouring onto the lawn from inside. 

She had been inside his home before, alone in his company before, but somehow… Alana knows that this time is different.

It is different, she thinks, because she _acknowledges_ the difference.

After another quick look in the rearview mirror, Alana smooths her hair and exits the car. Even in low, sensible heels, she wobbles slightly making the transition from sitting to standing. Perhaps she is already weak in the knees.

The walk from the front sidewalk up to Hannibal's door seems to take a lifetime, Alana's heartbeat echoing in her head syncopated with her heavy footsteps. Once at the door, Alana collects herself and lifts her hand to knock, only to stumble forward slightly as the door opens seemingly of it's own volition.

"I have caught you off guard." Hannibal's words are no question. He makes observations, noting them carefully, just as _she_ notes his hand around her wrist--offering only the slightest pressure which she uses to quickly right herself. Upon seeing that she is steady, Hannibal loosens his grip but does not let go.

Instead, he escorts her into the kitchen where a large island dominates the area. It is beautifully designed, all gleaming wood and stone top. There is an expansive four-burner stove inlaid on one side and on the other, room for people to stand or sit. There are four elegantly designed chairs, high and comfortable-looking with thick cushions on the seat and back. They are the color of dark jade, and accent the cherry wood of the island and the darker colored wood floor.

Alana drapes her coat across the back and perches on one of the chairs at Hannibal's gesture, resting her feet on the lower footrest. She crosses her arms and watches as Hannibal bends over to open a door to a small cabinet. Inside are bottles of wine along with a temperature gauge. Alana realizes it is a mini wine cellar and finds herself out of her depths, again.

Hannibal smiles at her as he puts the bottle on top of the table between them. He opens another drawer to retrieve a corkscrew. With expert ease, he unwraps the foil at the top of the bottle and removes the cork. He then fetches two wine glasses from another cabinet, pouring a portion of wine into each.

"I have noticed that your taste runs more to beer than to wine, and you have had your fill of the latter this evening," states Hannibal. His tone is matter of fact, and Alana doesn't feel any defensiveness at his words.

"I have a liking for craft beer. I like wine from time to time," Alana answers.

"Good. So here, I have a wine that is not what you think it might be. Take a small taste, see what you think." Hannibal lifts his own glass to sniff and take a small sip, his eyes on Alana, inviting her to do the same.

Alana raises her eyebrows at him but imitates his actions, taking just a small mouthful of wine and bracing herself for the taste. Her eyes widen as she realizes she isn't drinking a merlot or a shariz. This wine tastes of raspberries, full and heavy, ripe and delicious from the vine; it tastes of chocolate, a dark chocolate that teases at her tastebuds.

"A dessert wine, Doctor Lecter?" she asks, smiling, taking a second sip--this one with more pleasure. The wine is amazing, and is the perfect end to a night of gastronomic delights.

Hannibal indulges in a second sip as well, now holding the glass in hand, idly twisting the crystal clear glass by its stem. "A sweet ending to an enlightening night," he offers by way of explanation, nodding towards Alana, his expression neutral. "And, I admit, there are times when discussion requires a certain… lubricant."

Alana coughs, startled, and tries to cover the action with a clearing of her throat. She is far from a virgin, but Hannibal--this house, this _night_ \--makes her feel as awkward as a baby deer, teetering on the edge of something that has been in darkness until now. And now, as the light spreads, she can only stare. "I believe myself ready for just about anything, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal smiles at her, a hint of delight in his eyes. "I may have to put that to the test, Alana. You are formidable in your own way, and I admit to testing the… chinks in your armor. If you were my opponent, you would be a worthy one. As you are a student, it would be rude of me to cross you in such a way, even if I desired to truly test your mettle. But there might come a time when I can see where you stand, where you draw the line, and where I could…" Hannibal pauses, then shakes his head. "Pardon me. It has been a delightful evening in so many ways and I am being advantageous of your generosity. I have enjoyed your company very much."

Tilting her head to the side, Alana stares intently back. "I find it interesting that you'd want to cross me, that you'd want to see where my limits are. Is that something you do with everyone you meet, or am I an exception to your rules?"

Hannibal shrugs, the movement mostly translating to dismissal in the way he briefly shuts his eyes. "We all want to see where other people's limits are, Alana. As psychologists, it is essential we know where the lines are drawn. We can choose to cross those lines, to break those lines, to smudge them at will. Our patients need us to push those boundaries, to strengthen them, or to break them altogether. As I've said before, it is difficult for me to completely release my professional views from my personal ones. It is a particular _weakness_ of mine. There are exceptions in things I do, of course, but I hope never to cross a moral line." He takes another thoughtful sip and swallows before continuing.

"Of course, my morality and society's morality might not always meet so neatly."

Alana gives herself a moment to think, drawing a shallow sip from her glass and holding the chill liquid in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. As the wine warms on her tongue, she thinks, or imagines, that another taste arises. Something bright, and sharp. She swallows. "What you are saying…" she pauses again, setting the glass down and moving her fingers around the base where cool glass meets solid wood. "You do not refer only to psychiatry."

"All is psychiatry, Alana," Hannibal answers, neatly.

Shaking her head, Alana purses her lips, struggling to find the right words. The words that will bind him, urge him to speak frankly and not hidden behind layers of obscurity. What can she say that will draw out the sharp taste instead of the waves of chocolate and raspberry? "Your morality," she whispers, voice gaining momentum as the thought leaves her, "What does it say about me?"

"Alana," Hannibal says softly, his voice carrying effortlessly in the room. "What are you asking me?"

Alana raises her chin, her eyes flashing with determination. "Are there lines you wish to cross with me? You can be blunt."

Hannibal's eyebrows rise and his smile flares; that sharpness she craves coming out in the edge of his smile and the returning glint in his eyes.

"You are tiptoeing on the edge of respectability, Alana," Hannibal says, with a quick glance at her face. What he sees there--whatever he sees there--reassures him and his smile appears again, sharp and knowing.

"You are not answering my question, Doctor Lecter. Are you afraid to do so?" As the question leaves her, Alana's heart tumbles with recklessness.

"I fear nothing, nothing of man's design," Hannibal says softly, thoughtfully. "I am considering how to answer you, Alana. When you open Pandora's box, you cannot put back in what you have set free. What is done, is done, and no amount of weeping or regret can undo that."

"Perhaps you need reminding, then, that I am not Pandora, nor is this a box of horrors to be unleashed upon the world." Alana's voice is sharp.

"And how do you know that for certain, Alana? How can you be so confident in your answer? These are dark waters, _deep_ waters in which you tread. Because I respect you, I feel honor-bound to warn you that there are some questions which should not be answered, some questions that should not be asked," says Hannibal, his voice becoming darker, deeper with every word.

Alana gazes at him for a moment, taking in the odd, red glint of his eyes and shivers. "I simply wish to know if you are _tempted_ , Doctor Lecter. Tempted by who I am and what I am. Tempted to see where I may bend or break."

Hannibal leans forward, then, leans forward to touch the soft skin of her neck and to trace a line down her collarbone. Alana feels as though his fingertips are a combination of ice and fire. Setting her alight and shivering at once.

"I want you to bend. I want you to break. I want you to push yourself to the edge, but only… only if this is your deepest desire." Hannibal speaks slowly, remaining close to her. His fingertips press into the skin of her neck, begging for focus, demanding it. "I will not allow for any self-delusions or denials of one's true longings. This must be something you want. It must be something you wish to begin. I will not tell you what to do."

Alana's mouth parts and a half-moan, half-sigh escapes her lips. "Are you offering me something?"

Hannibal's fingers on the back of her neck inch towards her hairline. The chill--half from the contact, half from pure anticipation, zips down her spine. "An opportunity, Alana. To see the world in another way. To…" He leans closer still, and Alana can feel the gentle puff of his breath. "Allow someone else to hold the reins."

"And that someone would be you."

Hannibal offers no reply this time, but slides his fingers upward through Alana's hair, and gives the slightest of tugs. It is so light that Alana thinks, maybe, she imagines it. That she is simply reacting to the moment, that her senses are heightened. She knows, though, that with Hannibal there are no accidents. That everything is deliberate, planned, down to the most exquisite detail.

As slow as Hannibal had entangled himself with her, he is quick to withdraw. Alana tries to focus on the present, tries to push through the fog of desire and truly contemplate what this offer entails. Hannibal takes a small sip from his glass, his lips left wet with the wine.

Alana gifts him with a steady gaze as she deliberately sits back in her chair and takes another sip of the devilishly good dessert wine. The taste of raspberries and dark chocolate bloom in her mouth, and she smiles.

"Something is amusing you?" Hannibal asks, his eyes focusing on hers.

"I'm deliberating, Doctor Lecter. I'm thinking of consequences to any actions I may or may not take. I'm thinking that it is so very tempting to allow you to… hold the reins. I'm thinking that I could learn a lot from your… hand… yet, I'm not sure. I don't know how this will change our relationship," says Alana, the desire and want receding enough so she is able to think clearly once again. Her voice clarifies her.

“I cannot in good conscience offer this to you again,” says Hannibal and Alana hears regret in his voice.

“I know that. I understand that and I wouldn’t ask you to do so. This is, as they say, a once in a lifetime offer. I'm treating it with the respect due, Doctor Lecter. I'm thinking it over,” Alana replies.

Hannibal almost looks irritated as he listens to her words. "This is not the sort of thing one mulls over, Ms. Bloom.”

Alana is able to laugh at him, able to find a spark of amusement in this delicate, deadly dance between them. “This is the _very_ sort of thing one mulls over, Doctor Lecter. I don’t think you’d respect me much, otherwise. Hell, I wouldn't respect myself.”

Hannibal inclines his head. “You are correct, Alana. How much time do you require? I would rather not have this delayed for too long. It would become uncomfortable and would affect our interactions negatively.”

“I agree, Doctor Lecter. Perhaps… a week? I need some time and I don’t think a week is overlong. And my view of you isn’t likely to change within that time period,” assures Alana.

Hannibal steps back and leans against the sink, crossing his arms, his brow wrinkled in thought. Alana watches him, not saying a word.

“A week, then. Perhaps…” and a smile grows on Hannibal’s face, a smile that Alana is quick to learn means something private, something _devious_ going on in the mazes of his mind.

“Yes, Doctor Lecter?” she asks him.

“Dinner at my place, here. You may tell me your decision at that time. And I will abide by it, no matter how I feel,” instructs Hannibal.

Alana pauses, drinks the last of the wine in her glass. She nods her head. “A week, then. That’s fair enough. I will have an answer by then.”


	11. Chapter 11

Despite lack of sleep, a headache that could take down a far more hardy creature, and unfinished homework (for possibly the first time in her life), Alana knows that class is something that simply will not wait for her to get her head sorted. Knowing that Dr. Lecter will be there at the front of the room, his smooth voice carrying -- well, that is at once something she dreads and wants utterly. 

It has been three days since Alana left Hannibal's home soon after his offer was clarified. He had kissed her chastely on the cheek and wished her a safe journey home. She thanked him for the wine and for the time to consider. It was a wonder, Alana thinks now, that she didn't get in an accident on the way home. If her mind had been tumultuous on the way to enjoy drinks, it was practically an internal hurricane on the way home.

She can see glimpses of what Dr. Lecter's offer entailed, but has the feeling that it is all far more intricate than she realized. Attempting to figure out what exactly Hannibal had in mind had absorbed an embarrassing amount of Alana's time -- pushing school far from the focus it should have been. She is tempted to take the offer just to get things back to normal. Dr. Lecter had been right, once again: Just by asking the question, Hannibal had opened a sort of Pandora's Box between them. It was unlikely to destroy the world, but who knew the havoc it could wreck on, at the very least, Alana's mind.

Right on time, Hannibal takes his place behind the podium and the class quickly quiets. 

Alana resolutely shoves her thoughts into a small ball and into the corner of her mind. She simply can’t afford to waste any more energy on the offer Hannibal made; she needs to focus on today’s lecture.

To her relief, Hannibal only glances her way once or twice as he talks. Alana breathes in a small sigh of relief and writes crisp, clear notes in her notebook. She is thrilled to see her letters are firm and even.

At the end of the lecture, Hannibal asks for questions from the class. Alana listens to a few of her classmates speak up. Some of the questions are helpful; Alana writes down what Hannibal says and what her classmate’s question is so she can take a more thoughtful look at it later on. She doesn’t have any questions for Hannibal. Of course, she has to answer a question in reserve and she considers herself fortunate she has the luxury of a week, _had_ she reminds herself, to think things over.

Alana has the sneaking suspicion that Hannibal is offering something not normally spoken about in polite circles. She also is thinking he has a grasp into her psyche and an advantage that most men never had. She isn’t sure what to think of it. On one hand, it’s gratifying to know someone who can suss out inner details with only a few words from her. On the other hand, she wonders if she’s that damn transparent. Maybe she simply is an onion that Hannibal peeled, expertly bypassing the outer layers to get to her core. And maybe she is finally becoming a casualty of overstudy and stress. She knows she hasn’t spent this much time in thought over any other man who has been interested in her.

Alana's never done anything like this before. (And that might just be the best argument she's posed for the arrangement yet.) Of course, this just gives her an excuse to think about this whole situation some more and she could just _kick_ herself for that. No, enough of that. Time for action.

Following her immediate urge, Alana shoots to the front of the room. Thankfully, there are only one or two lingering questions now. Once Alana reaches Hannibal's audience, he regards her with a warm, calm smile. 

"I know we're meeting on Saturday," Alana says, rushed, unable for once to meet his eyes. "But I think I need some clarification. It behests me to be informed to the best of my ability in order to make the right decision, I think." She clears her throat, finally finding the courage to look up and meet Hannibal's eyes. "I'd like to request further information."

"I've afforded you a week to consider my offer," Hannibal begins, granting Alana his full attention. "If you'll afford me twenty-four hours, I believe I can comply with your request in a way that is satisfactory to you."

Momentarily overwhelmed with the positive feeling she receives from simple acceptance, Alana grins. "I'm surprised it'll take you that long. You strike me as someone who would've had all this planned long ago." Hell, he did more than _strike_ her. "Preparation" is probably the man's middle name.

His eyes squint in silent amusement. "Is limbo the best state in which to joke?"

She chances a saucy grin at him, her own eyes crinkling up with humor and relief. “I’d be a poor choice of a… possible liaison if I couldn’t hold my own against you, Dr. Lecter.”

“I see… well, then. I wouldn’t want to think I make any sort of poor choices, now do I?” mused Hannibal. “But back to what you desire… an explanation, further information that will calm that analytical mind of yours and soothe your emotional quandaries." He takes a breath as if considering. "I can provide that but I wish to take the time to do so… I might be prepared for certain things but there are always surprises. I cannot prepare for that.”

“I’m a surprise, then, Dr. Lecter? A pleasant one?” asks Alana.

“Are you _fishing_ , Ms. Bloom?” queries Hannibal, his tone amused.

“Never,” says Alana, her saucy grin widening. “I would never be so uncouth or rude.”

Hannibal nods to her. “Indeed. Twenty-four hours, Ms. Bloom. I will have something that shall meet your requirements.”

"You know, I don't need that whole air of mystery to stay interested."

Hannibal's tongue flicks out to moisten his lips, his face down turned to the papers he is stacking. "I shall bear that in mind, Ms. Bloom. Now -- I believe we both have some thinking to do."

Alana knows a polite dismissal when she hears one; she nods to him, wishes him a good day and leaves.

\--

The next day, Alana takes her seat in class, setting her notebook down on top of her desk and uncapping her pen. She had firmly put away any qualms last night, telling herself that Dr. Lecter would be true to his word and would have something concrete for her to the next day after class. It would do her no good to fret. A good night’s sleep would do wonders for her.

She took a sleeping pill, though, just to be sure and dropped off almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, waking up bright eyed and refreshed.

Now, Dr. Lecter nods to her from time to time but he also acknowledges the other students in the classroom as well. He circles the front of the room, gesturing as he makes his various points. He is fully in command of the situation, the people, the coursework he lectures on today.

Alana watches him, her mouth slightly open as she drinks in the sight of a professional at work, someone who with a twitch of his fingers, the lifting of an eyebrow, has his students watching his every move.

Of course, _she_ is one of those students. The thought makes her flush. 

"Now," Dr. Lecter continues, slowly approaching the first step of the small amphitheater, "you will all have to bear with me. This exercise is perhaps, a little 'out of the box' but I believe you will find it edifying." All eyes follow him as he makes his way up the main aisle, dividing their numbers in half. "Close your eyes."

A few titters of laughter bubble up, but Hannibal is quick to calm them. "As _young professionals_ I am sure you can handle such a task with impunity." 

Alana takes a deep breath, and, closing her eyes, releases it slowly. Suddenly, they are alone, the two of them, in this great room. She is tied, singly, to his voice as it moves up and down the steps, almost silent, sure. 

The class stays admirably silent, and Hannibal revels in the sound. He had decided several days ago to experiment with this little exercise in meditation and foundation shaking. As much as he had loathed Smythe during their brief interactions, the man had a point. Far too many graduates of this school relied on archaic methods and inflated egos to get ahead. Psychology only deserved the strongest minds.

"After going through the necessary checks -- are you carrying a weapon, bringing a sharp object to the prisoner -- you are admitted into a high security interrogation room. This is your first time meeting. You, however, do have the benefit of knowing this man's background, his history, his face. Of what he is accused. He knows nothing about you, aside from what you _give_ him."

Hannibal pauses his narrative, watching the smooth skin of Alana Bloom's face twitch vaguely in thought. Beneath her eyelids, her eyes dart, and breath moves steady between her partially open lips. He slides his note under her clenched hands, and she tightens reflexively, drawing it closer to her. 

"Have you begun your morning with coffee?" He asks, continuing his stroll through the room. "Did you remember to apply antiperspirant?" Even from across the room, his eyes linger on Alana. She fidgets now, moving her hand across the page and frowning. She is frustrated, and yet does not open her eyes. Other students have looked up to exchange glances or check a mobile phone. Not Alana. Interesting.

The questioning continues. At each, Hannibal glibly encourages members of the class to raise their hands and admit -- if only to themselves and him -- where they have presented something for their subject to observe and use. After a few admissions, hands become more wary, expressions darken. 

For each example, Hannibal calmly explains how the session will be skewed, the doctor at fault. Alana… is not fond of the way this has turned. She pulls her feet beneath her chair and crosses them at the ankle, her expression growing more and more closed off. Hard. He knows with far more certainty now that there has been no mistake in presenting her with his offer. He knows _her_ like he knows the cold stone of desire low in his stomach. 

"But! Perhaps the next visit will go better," Hannibal suggests, almost benign. "In addition to your readings, I encourage you to think about the ways you are made vulnerable by your own choices. Dismissed."

The class seems to stumble to their feet as one organic being, books haphazardly stuffed into bags which are then thrown hastily over shoulders. Most of the students look like they woke from a nightmare, their faces screwed up like a small child’s as they nod to Hannibal and flee. 

Alana calmly puts her things in her book, noting the trembling of her hands, with a clinical detachment. She knows there’s a point to this exercise and while she resents being put through her paces and being -- clearly -- manipulated like a puppet, she also sees the purpose of the exercise.

At any rate, there are no questions, no lingering students; the scent of fear and confusion in the air. Alana smiles a little, a brief curl of her lips. This is a lesson they won’t forget easily. She knows arrogance is easy to fall into with doctors, arrogance and presumption, and a part of her is thrilled to see Dr. Lecter puncture those like a pin going through balloons. 

After a minute, she looks up to see his eyes on her, looking at her. She feels as though she is being weighed, measured, and she subconsciously raises her chin up, her own eyes shuttered. Her thoughts she wishes to keep to herself at the moment and she isn’t willing to share anything. 

He tips his head at her and says nothing as she gathers her coat, tucks it over her arm, her own bag slung over her shoulder. She nods at him and leaves the classroom, very much aware of the piece of parchment tucked inside her notebook. She wonders, idly, if anyone could see the Scarlet Letter that has been etched over her heart, this weakness she wears for others to see. She feels very much like Hester Prim at this moment. The humanity of desire, the twistedness of it, means those who look up to her in class would turn on her at a moment's notice if they knew that underneath her frustration with Dr. Lecter her thighs were trembling.

\--

It would be easy to draw out the paper on the short walk back to her car. To read the missive while the engine idled, or a few sentences at each stop light. It feels wrong, somehow, to let this pass so casually. 

So, Alana waits. She waits until a cup of tea has brewed and warms her palms. She takes a deep breath, then, and places it on the table in front of her, smoothing it flat before reading. 

First, Alana notices that the paper isn’t the cheap, big box office supply store kind. It isn’t printer paper and it isn’t form letter paper. It is thick, a vellum that has flecks of colour in it, the crosscut of the paper and the thickness a weight she noticed when she had it in her hands. She isn't surprised, of course, to see that Hannibal uses paper from an expensive stationary store or perhaps ordered online as a special order. There was nothing stock about this, not the way it looked nor the way it felt.

Alana takes a moment to admire the cream color of the sheet in front of her and then she acknowledges she is stalling. She takes a quick sip of her tea and focuses her attention on the words meticulously written on the parchment.

_Dearest Alana:_

_Please allow me the intimacy of this salutation as I feel it is most appropriate for this particular correspondence._

_You have requested more knowledge of our tête-à-tête and after some thought, knowing you as I do, I believe I know what it is you seek._

_We shall have dinner together. I shall cook for you and allow you an inkling of my intentions towards you._

_You shall wear what your heart desires. I will not dictate this to you. I will not insult you with any directions or interpretations. I believe you know what you want and though you have circled around it, although you have examined it in the darkness of your subconscious, I do not believe you have brought it into the light._

_This is when I call your bluff, when you show your cards, when I see what you have hidden in the mazes of your heart. I dare you to allow yourself free rein. I see you thinking, always thinking, always keeping your impulses in check._

_Dinner and whatever happens afterwards will give you permission to let loose the thoughts that consume you and haunt you. To loose the jesses around your heart. To explore what it means to soar free of the bonds you have created for yourself._

_I look forward to your company and I do not deny that my desire to see this play out to the end quickens my own desires. You are a worthy companion, Alana. Never think I’ve ever thought less of you._

_Awaiting your response,_

_Hannibal_


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter in the first part of Alana's journey. Dinner and dessert. See end notes for links and culinary explanations.
> 
> Additional content notice in this chapter for cannibalism.
> 
> Happy New Year.

Alana is sure she hasn’t ever dressed with such care as she has for tonight’s dinner. She thought about what Dr. Lecter had written over the following few days and told herself she couldn’t, shirk taking a good, long, hard look at herself -- she owes Dr. Lecter that, at least. She refuses to flinch when she thinks of what she wants, and how her dress will let Dr. Lecter know what has been on her mind.

It has been a delicate dance between the two of them, and Alana has no illusions as to whom is leading whom. She ought to feel disgust at her compliance but mainly it’s a fluttering feeling deep in her gut. She feels as though she’s burning slowly from the inside out. Alana doesn’t allow herself to consider what the future may hold after _this_ dalliance. She's spent far too long _worrying_ about things, taking notes while life happens.

Still. Alana looks over her clothing with a discerning eye. Despite her income, she has choices and options and she has always been savvy with her accessories. The problem isn’t that she doesn’t have anything to wear, but the message she wants to convey.

In the end, Alana chooses her black heels, ones that are at least four inches high with razor thin straps. She puts on a garter belt and thigh high black nylons that end up mostly concealed by her dress -- a bridesmaid's dress left over from a friend's wedding. The Grecian-influenced cut is a light mauve color that drapes over her body in flattering folds. To revamp the look, Alana has made a small alteration, snipping one of the layers of skirt fabric and draping it around her neck and shoulders. It gives the illusion of modesty, and invites the viewer to look closer. The ends of her make-shift shawl trail elegantly down her back, and finally satisfied, Alana nods decisively at her reflection in the mirror.

Alana fastens on delicate gold hoops and, after some deliberation, puts on a thick gold bracelet that suggests… she hopes Dr. Lecter will see the subtle message behind the jewelry. 

She puts on a light nude colour lipstick that is a shade darker than her lip’s natural colour and eye shadow that accents her dark eyes. It is a delicate look with just the hint of something stronger in the kohl eyeliner and dark mascara. 

Alana inspects herself in the mirror one last time. She doesn’t think of herself as Pandora so much as Persephone, readying herself to meet Hades at his domain (oh, she has no naivete on this point). Perhaps she also has the wisdom of Athena to go with her warrior spirit. Perhaps this is the night that knowledge will be unlocked, a kind of physical knowledge. The sort she has been missing. She raises her chin defiantly at her reflection and smiles slightly; there is the flicker of spirit she needs to see.

\--

The doctor is not without his own preparations to make. Hannibal makes an effort to always keep his residence in a condition he would not be ashamed to welcome guests into, but even so, tonight requires a few special touches.

He expects Alana's arrival in -- a quick glance at the kitchen's clock reassures him -- just over half an hour, and as it stands, the house is already burning bright in welcome. The oven and stove produce their various pleasant odors, and dinner is well on its way to being a true success. 

The meat, trussed and stuffed, simmers in the oven. Smythe makes for a convincing pork roast, just this side of tenderly done. Hannibal takes the smallest of sips from his wine glass, allowing a moment to imagine Alana's lips closing around a carefully cut bite. The smile as each flavor reaches her tongue. 

The sweetbreads are prepared, fried in a light breading that will only enhance the truly exquisite flavor. Two dipping sauces, one hot, the other cool, wait in the refrigerator to be set out and tasted. Such a flavorful beginning to their meal. Fortunately, Hannibal knows from experience that the delicate parts of a person are far easier to digest than their public personas.

There is a salad as well, a verdant green with mushrooms and raw peppers scattered throughout the mixed greens. Hannibal chose a bacon vinaigrette and thick croutons to complete the side dish.

The dessert is in the refrigerator, elegant sweetmeats plated on a silver platter, waiting to be served at the appropriate time. Hannibal is most pleased with how they turned out. 

He lingers over the wine selection, knowing Alana isn’t a wine connoisseur, and chooses a Chardonnay that will pair wonderfully with the "pork" roast and a dark chocolate raspberry cognac for dessert. 

Hannibal walks into the dining room, inspecting the table with a critical eye. He chose dark maroon linens and the plates are china with scalloped edging of gold. The silverware has been polished and it gleams in the light. He pauses at the water glasses, fine cut crystal globes, and checks to make sure there are no water spots. The wine glasses are also in place and he rearranges the salt and pepper shakers so they are within easy reach for either him or Alana. 

He straightens one of the beeswax candles in the ornate iron candelabra that is the centerpiece of the table and checks to make sure the matches are within reach on the sideboard. 

He catches his reflection in the sideboard mirror and cocks his head to one side, slowly assessing what he sees. He’s wearing a crisp white linen shirt, a dark blue tie in an intricate knot around his neck. His vest is dark blue with subtle pinstriping and buttoned from top to bottom. He chose dark blue dress pants and his black shoes are polished and buffed. He looks every inch the gentleman of the manor, self assured and sleek. 

As for the non-culinary elements of the evening, those have been long labored over in the days preceding, and Dr. Lecter knows, need no further adjustment.

All that remains now is to await Ms. Bloom's arrival. The variable of human experience, Hannibal finds, is wonderful. Wonderfully _predictable_ , of course, but still curious. In the case of Alana Bloom, Hannibal has been correct so far in his judgments, but believes in some small place that the woman is capable of truly surprising him. Even if not, the attempt will be entertaining. 

Returning to the kitchen, Hannibal takes another peek at the roast. Spooning a measure of water and fat from the bottom of the pan, Hannibal drizzles the beast with liquid and is answered with a thrilling sizzle and, interestingly enough, the bell tone of his doorbell.

\--

"Well," Alana says, taking hesitant steps over the threshold, "you certainly don't hold anything back."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, an open look to be interpreted as the viewer sees fit. 

"Even for you, this is pretty fancy." Alana steps over to the table and traces a line in the maroon linen. "Glad to see I haven't overdressed."

"Far from it," Hannibal replies, clearing his throat. "You look lovely, Alana. I am honored to share this time with you."

Despite anticipating the compliment, Alana can still feel blush creep up her chest and into her cheeks. Obviously, her body thinks it appropriate to remind her of just how much of a neophyte at this game she is. 

"I appreciated your letter," she says, frozen to the spot by his gaze. Only silly words cooperate with her tongue. "I found it… a little inspiring, actually."

"And it pleases me to have such an effect on one so eager to learn." Hannibal touches Alana's elbow and takes a step forward. "Come, Alana. Allow me to pour you a drink to enjoy until time indicates that our meal is prepared."

Wordlessly, the pair move through the dining room and into the kitchen, where Alana catches herself almost light headed at the various dinner smells. 

Alana watches as Hannibal expertly pours her a shot of scotch into a tumbler. She raises her eyebrows slightly. “Scotch? I thought you prefer wine,” she commented, taking a quick sip and enjoying the taste of 15-year-old Scotch on her tongue.

Hannibal smiles after taking a sip of his own. “There is wine for dinner. I thought I’d offer you something a little different. I imagined that you, like me, might have a weakness for good Scotch."

Alana nods her head, taking another sip, closing her eyes half way as the Scotch slides down her throat and into her stomach. "Mmmm… it tastes wonderful. Thank you.”

Hannibal studies her for a moment, his dark eyes looking her over from head to toe. Alana resists the urge to fidget, instead reminding herself she _has_ taken time and energy to put her outfit together and she wonders what he thinks.

“You look very… Grecian,” he says after a moment, his eyes lingering like the touch of fingertips on the folds of her dress.

“I thought you’d appreciate something timeless." Alana plays with the corner of her bracelet, the tips of her finger grazing the edge of the heavy cuff. She grins, cheeky. "Like a good Scotch."

Hannibal’s eyes don’t miss a thing even as he half-smiles at her remark, he captures her hand in his, raising her wrist so he can look at the bracelet. “Is this meant for me?” he asks her, raising his eyebrows.

Alana feels herself flushing even as she meets his eyes fearlessly. “I believe you asked me to dress in whatever way I wanted to… to give you an idea of what I expect or even desire. You didn't think I would falter and lose heart?”

“No. But this is more subtle than I imagined. I see the message.” Dr. Lecter steps forward into Alana’s space, his body almost touching hers. He traces the edge of the bracelet with his fingers, brushing her warm skin with almost negligence.

Alana can’t catch her breath. She feels his fingertips trace the edge of her bracelet, feels the pads of his fingers touch the tender skin at her inner wrist. Her pulse rabbits in response and her breath hitches as he pauses in his journey, his fingers holding her wrist, the bracelet pressed against her skin.

Just as heat spreads from his hand to her wrist, he releases her. “Come, Alana. Let’s start with appetizers. The main course will be ready when we are done,” he says after a moment, turning his head to look at a timer on the counter. Alana sucks in a breath, feeling as though she's narrowly escaped a grisly fate. 

Despite being quick to follow Hannibal, he already has a generous plate of food on the spotless counter. "Sweetbreads. And," he slides two small saucers gently towards her, "two flavors with which to enhance them."

She is… uncertain at best about the terminology, but the dish appears to be some sort of fancy chicken nugget -- an opinion she dares not express. "I like a little spice, but not _too_ hot," she says instead, hand suspended halfway to the dish, paused, looking to Dr. Lecter's response.

"You may, then, enjoy them both. The light green sauce is cool. A ranch-like tang. The red is made with pepper, but blended with chilli and onion marmalade. A bite, smothered by sweet." Having her options spelled out only manages to set Alana further on edge, and hesitating over the red sauce, she can only feel the heat of the sweetbreads between her thumb and index finger, and the heat of Hannibal's gaze -- even when she looks up and sees him tending to a dish on the stove.

She decides to play it safe, at first, anyway, and dips one of the morsels into the green sauce, taking a bite with her eyes closed. The sauce is rich, decadent, and complements the breading over the appetizer; mild, but for the sauce, and surprisingly enough, a little like the most tender chicken. It is good and she tries another in the green sauce before taking a sip of Scotch for courage.

Her next morsel is dipped into the red pepper sauce and when she bites into it, the flavours burst onto her tongue, causing her to gasp slightly. The spiciness of the sauce makes up for the blandness of the sweetbread, itself. The texture is a little grainy, reminding her of falafel in a way but without the taste of chickpeas. Alana eats another sweet bread dipped in the red sauce and takes small sips of Scotch. It leavens the flavour and she decides it isn’t too bad as far as appetizers go.

Hannibal glances her way as she tries the sweetbreads and once he can see that she is handling it just fine, he turns back to doing whatever has captured his attention at the stove. Alana peers over; it looks like a roast but she doesn’t want to make any assumptions. She sniffs a little and can smell the meat in its own juices. She’s glad she’s had a little snack before supper, otherwise she knows she’d be disgracing herself with stomach growls until dinner was ready.

She enjoys watching Hannibal fuss over the main course, the subtle lighting in the ceiling shining down, bringing out accents of cinnamon and nutmeg colours in his dark brown hair. His hands are busy ladling juice over the meat and Alana’s mouth goes dry as she studies the play of muscles in his forearms and the strength in his fingers as he lifts the meat up slightly to baste the backside of it.

Hannibal spares her a quick glance. "Are you finished with the appetizer?" he asks, noting she’d not tried anything within the last five minutes.

"Oh! I wanted to save some for you. I don’t want to be rude and eat all of them," she confesses with a slight smile. "They are very good. Thank you."

"‘I’m glad you like them. Sweetbreads are a delicacy for most people and I had the opportunity to make them for you. I do indulge upon them from time to time," says Hannibal as he sets down the baster and fork. He picks up a sweet bread and dips it into the red sauce without hesitation.

Alana takes another sip of her Scotch and watches him from beneath her lashes. He eats that one and chooses another, dipping it into the green sauce and eating it quickly. He mirrors her, picking up his glass and taking a sip of Scotch.

"I have to admit," Alana pauses, putting her glass down and tracing the cool circle where it hits the table. "This feels a bit strained."

"And why do you say that?" Hannibal's expression, as usual, reveals nothing. He could be teasing her, stringing her along, and Alana would never know.

"I suppose it's a little like being told you get to see the trapeze artist and then having to sit through the line, the clowns, the elephants… not sure what is coming." She can feel herself blushing again, or perhaps it is just the heat from the oven, or the red sauce. "It isn't that those things aren't lovely, but there's just…"

"A main attraction." Hannibal is thoughtful for a moment, watching her. The timer clicks into place with a low snap, and Hannibal smiles. For a few minutes he is busy, reaching into the oven and over the stove, pouring and mixing and plating. He steps to the refrigerator and turns back to look at Alana, briefly. "You must think me a cruel ringmaster, then, to prolong this."

Another sip of scotch. _Yes!_ her body yelps, almost shoving away from the counter. "I'm not sure if I could think you _cruel_ , Dr. Lecter," she says, hoping her flirtatious tone is enough to hide the desperation, the desire she's caged in all this time.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, then, and murmurs, returning to the counter with a bowl of salad in his arms says, “Perhaps I’ve been misleading you all this time.”

Alana’s eyes widen and she looks away. “I’d never thought you’d be that deceptive, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal pauses in the act of choosing another sweetbread, his fingers barely brushing the breaded morsel. He studies it for a moment before picking it up and putting it into his mouth with a thin smile.

Alana waits but he says nothing, just chews silently. She lets the silence lengthen, resolutely deciding not to be the one to disturb it. She feels as though the lights shining down upon them highlight them as the first act in a play she wasn’t aware she’d been cast in. Unfortunately, she hasn't been given a script, either.

Hannibal gives her one final glance and then turns back to the stove. “Dinner is ready. If you would, Alana, I’d appreciate you taking this to the table.” He hands her the salad bowl and she takes it from his hands, the tips of her fingers touching his.

She sets the bowl on the table and then turns. “Do you have dressing?” Hannibal nods, gets the dressing out of the refrigerator, and gives the bottle to Alana. She sets it down beside the salad.

Hannibal brings over a small platter with asparagus bound up with bacon in little bundles. The asparagus have been lightly brushed with butter and pepper had been ground over them. The black specks glisten under the light. Balanced between his free hand and hip is the main course, fresh out of the oven. As Alana suspected, it appears to be some sort of roast. She can't venture to guess of _what_ , exactly, but it smells like heaven.

Hannibal opens the wine and pours a generous amount into the wine glasses set on the table. He shows Alana the label; it’s a Chardonnay from Beringer, year 2002. Alana takes an appreciative sip and the flavours of apple and oak burst onto her tongue.

Hannibal reaches over to the sideboard and grasps the box of matches in his hand. He lights a match and quickly lights the candles in the iron candelabra centerpiece. The candles give a rosy gold glow to the room and a further intimacy.

"Now," he says, booming against the relative silence between them. He slices into the roast, and begins to serve her, announcing each dish as it is plated. "Roast pork, cooked in it's own juices. Salad, with mushroom and red pepper. Dressing is a bacon vinaigrette.You may find the two dishes joined by bacon-wrapped asparagus. And, naturally, there is dessert to follow."

Alana takes a moment to gaze at the meal set out in front of her. Everything looks like it comes from a cookbook or a cooking show. It looks delicious. She puts some salad on the small plate in front of her and selects the salad fork. Hannibal sits down across from her and does the same. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the salad and passing each other the dressing. Then, as Alana and then Hannibal exchange forks and start on the asparagus, Hannibal clears his throat. "Have you considered, Alana, that this is _part_ of the main event?" He looks down at his plate to make a quick cut and then brings the vegetable and pork to his lips, chewing leisurely. His question is rhetorical -- he does not wait for her answer. But what, then, does he wait for? Alana cuts into her own food, determinedly chewing while she waits as well. "Not merely an opening, but the very thread that binds the final piece together?"

"The food… symbolizes something?" Alana finally asks, hesitant. 

A smile flashes across Hannibal's face. "Mm," he says, and returns his attention to the food.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter, but I'm at a loss."

"Oh, don't worry. The only trussed up meat here is the one we are ingesting." Seemingly reminded of its existence by his bringing it up, Hannibal takes a small bite of the pork roast, watching Alana, eyes meeting hers as he chews -- a light is there in his eyes that she has missed, somehow, before. "What we may embark on, you and I, has roots deeply set in respect and trust. A dialogue, with and without words." He sets his fork and knife down, drawing his hands together in thought. "Without that, we become less than human. Meat."

The idea is a heady one, one Alana can only just begin to process in the moment allowed. "What," she pushes past preponderance into flirtation, "surely we aren't consuming a past _affaire du coeur_?" The light dances in her eyes, and after a moment of his usual stony face, it dances in Dr. Lecter's as well. 

"That would be a rather inappropriate welcome to my home, Alana," he answers, but it is with the same mirth she has expressed. Any concern his remarks may have piqued are laid to rest. "Wine and conversation? Much nicer."

"Your culinary skills do make a decent argument in favor of a meal," Alana allows, teasing gently while looking at her plate. She looks up at Hannibal through her lashes, and finds him perhaps more beautiful in the hazy spot of vision shifting between shadow.

“I’m so pleased you find this a much better gastronomical experience than, say, Burger King. After all, there you can have it your way,” says Hannibal, dryly.

Alana snorts mortified laughter and then gulps down some wine in an effort to cover up her gauche noises. She looks at Hannibal again over her wineglass and sees he’s looking indulgently amused.

“Have you finished your meal?” he asks, gesturing at her empty plate.

“Yes… it was delicious. Perhaps sometime you can give me the recipe,” hints Alana.

There is a flare of _something_ in his eyes and Hannibal smiles at her. “Perhaps,” he allows. “I hope you’ve saved room for dessert. There’s a lovely cognac to go with it. Something along the lines of what you tasted before,” Hannibal reminds her.

“I have room for dessert. And is this a dessert cognac?” asks Alana.

“Yes,” answers Hannibal, deftly clearing the table of their plates and silverware. Alana picks up the wine glasses and empty salad bowl and puts them down on the countertop near the sink.

She turns to help clear off the rest of the table and sits down when Hannibal gestures for her to take a seat while he quickly wipes off the surface. He snuffs out the candles with the tips of his fingers.

“Now, I think you’ll enjoy this,” predicts Hannibal as he walks over to the wine cabinet, opens it, and takes out a small bottle.

He uncorks it with ease and pours a small amount into two cognac glasses. He swirls them around expertly and hands one to Alana. She takes a sniff and looks up at him, delightedly.

“It’s chocolate raspberry. That was delicious dessert wine,” she admits, remembering the night and taking a leisurely swallow.

“I am glad you liked it so much. I thought you might not mind a cognac with the same flavours,” says Hannibal as he takes a small sip of his cognac. He walks to the fridge and pulls out two dessert plates. Balancing the plates with one hand and his cognac glass in the other, he sets them down on the table.

“What is this?” Alana asks him, her brow wrinkling slightly. She isn’t sure what it is and she doesn’t want to insult him by guessing wrong. She would rather ask him and him tell her.

“Sweetmeats,” answers Hannibal. "Sweetbreads, as you may recall, are neither sweet nor bread. This dish, however, is quite delightfully sweet." Hannibal sets a platter on the cleared table between them. The silver is punctuated with small pastries and treats adorned with caramel, sugar and nuts. "Sweetmeats may be poorly named, but the satisfaction of indulgence cannot be compared." He gestures toward the plate. "They are yours to taste."

After another sip (she can't resist) of the cognac, Alana reaches for the piece closest to her and pops it in her mouth without ceremony. She hadn't inspected it very closely, but now that the piece is in her mouth, melting slowly, Alana realizes that she's picked up a piece of crystallized fruit -- pear, if she is guessing correctly. "Mmm," Alana whispers low, taking a moment to close her eyes and truly savor the treat.

Hannibal smiles and takes a piece covered in almonds and caramel and puts it in his mouth. Alana takes another piece and is delighted when the taste of blackberries and nougat blend in her mouth.

"I think it's rather criminal to be so skilled at cooking, and somehow a master of desserts as well." Alana smiles, no layered flirtation now, just simple appreciation. "These are heavenly."

"A criminal might achieve heaven, then." Hannibal regards the plate and plucks a candy from near the center of the second platter. "Take a sip of the cognac, and then try this."

Deciding to let sensation take over, Alana does what she is told. The cognac is as heady and sweet as before, and the treat something that tastes of almond, small nuts providing a crunch, and then a terrific explosion of raspberry on her tongue, echoing and shining light on the taste remaining from her drink.

Alana closes her eyes, biting down _hard_ on a groan that almost escapes her mouth. She stiffens as Hannibal comes behind her, bending over and putting a hand on her waist and the other brushing aside the hair from her neck.

“See? Maybe not heaven but surely the Garden of Eden. Temptation, itself,” he purrs, his voice low and vibrating.

“Are you the devil then, Dr. Lecter?” asks Alana, her voice stuttering slightly.

“It all depends upon your point of view. Do I offer knowledge and wisdom or am I simply the path to ruin and sin? It’s all up to where your desires lead you,” he murmurs into her ear.

Alana keeps her eyes closed as his breath whispers over her ear. She is trembling and knows he can feel it, standing right behind her, his body a hairsbreadth away from hers. She counts herself fortunate she is still seated as she isn’t sure her legs can hold her up.

“I’ve never been one for theology and debating the divine,” she tells him, her voice sharper than normal, but still breathy.

“I didn’t invite you here for that,” says Hannibal, his voice wry. “I think you know why you are here, Alana. Are you willing to explore your desires? Do I take the hint you’ve given me in this,” and here he tugs at her bracelet, easily pulling her arm behind her back, pinning it against her lower back with his own hand.

“I…” Alana is lost. Her senses are ablaze with anticipation and the desire that has coiled in her belly and has been caged at her command is now making itself known.

Hannibal’s mouth ghosts down the side of her neck and Alana moans, clenching her fists tight. “Are you going to let go, Alana? This dance, this _pas de deux_ has reached its coda. Trust me, Alana. Allow yourself to fall.”

Alana takes in a gasping breath, her head dropping back, her eyelids fluttering. 

“Come with me,” commands Hannibal and the mastery in his voice, the demand for supplication has her bowing her head in agreement. When Alana remains still, he continues. “Alana… this is your choice. I will not allow for any misunderstandings. Is this what you want?” asks Hannibal, tipping her head back and looking into her eyes.

Alana stares at him for a moment and then flares. “Yes. Dammit… yes. I know what I’m doing. Please,” she adds, her voice quivering.

Hannibal pulls her chair out and Alana stands up, trembling, but her legs steady enough. Hannibal smiles encouragingly at her and tugs her forward.

She follows him, her hand still captured in his, his fingers playing with the edges of her bracelet. She follows him to a door and down the staircase that is revealed once the door is opened.

She has a moment to look around when they reach the bottom of the stairs. A moment to see a cabinet, tall and dark. A moment to see the St. Andrew’s Cross against the far wall. And then the blindfold covers her eyes and she sees no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smythe has been distributed throughout the meal. The herbed and stuffed "pork," the "bacon," and the sweetbreads all have their root in Alana's former professor. Perhaps he is incorporated elsewhere; the show leaves some things to the viewers' imaginations and we decided to do the same.
> 
> The sweetbreads recipe that Hannibal uses is [here](http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2009/07/southern-fried-sweetbreads) with some variations in the sauce. Sweetbreads are made from the thymus glands (and sometimes brains) of, usually, calves and lambs.
> 
> Sweetmeats, as Hannibal explains, are a dessert. Their contents can range. Originally, the treat was designed as a way to preserve fruits and nuts with sugar. The term does not apply to desserts made with chocolate, as chocolate is a New World food.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of the first story. This chapter rated Explicit.

Alana doesn't reach for the cloth, or step away. Her body does gently quiver, belying her outward calm. Hannibal takes a step, then turns to face her. Even though Alana is blindfolded, she'll be able to track the direction of his voice. "In the future, I'll not be so careless with making presumptuous moves, Alana, but knowing that this is a world foreign to you, I felt an… immersive introduction would be best."

She takes a long breath and lets it go. _Good girl,_ Hannibal thinks, and runs a knuckle down her cheek. After startling, Alana settles into the touch. "Tell me, Alana. Are you uncomfortable at all? You may speak freely."

Her nervous laughter fills the spacious basement room. "A little warning in the future might be nice." She swallows. "But, no. This isn't terrible."

"Do you agree that perhaps the best way to understand this undertaking would be to experience what you are signing up for?" He notices his heart beat. Hannibal is… excited at the possibility that this night -- and the nights that will follow -- may bring. "After all, there is a vast difference between my description of a blindfold over my own eyes and your experience beneath the cloth."

"I like to make educated decisions, yes. And, to be honest, I'm not sure how much of what I've read actually applies. This began as a lesson in hedonism, right? Well, I'm pretty sure we've veered somewhere to the left."

"Veered, yes. However, the concepts are not wholly separate. After all, what is a blindfold but a study in sensation?"  
Alana considers that in silence for a moment; Hannibal being content just to look at her. She is beautiful, the blindfold covering her eyes, her hands clasped together. She still plays with her bracelet, an unconscious tell that makes Hannibal smile. The dim light picks out the highlights in her hair and her skin glows under the subtle track lights. As infrequently as Hannibal finds himself given to such fancy, he still imagines that perhaps Alana was made for this. Or that he might make her.

“That would be one way to put it, yes,” murmurs Alana, a hint of humor threaded in her tone. “And the blindfold does enhance certain things.”

Hannibal moves around her again, touching a delicate hand to her shoulder, feeling her flex and then move into his touch. “What things?” he asks, curiosity in _his_ tone.

“I can hear you moving around. I can hear the sounds the house makes. Little clicks, little shifts the wood makes as it breathes. I can feel there’s a slight current. I’m not cold… but I can feel the air over my skin. My sense of hearing is enhanced and my sense of touch,” and here, Alana shrugs, dislodging Hannibal’s hand. “I can feel the warmth of your skin and when you lean into me, I can feel your body against mine.”

“Very good, Alana. All this is your brain taking in sensory data -- data that we have been trained to ignore in favor of what our eyes perceive. You, your brain, is a fast learner. I’d like to see what it takes in when I apply something else to its musing,” says Hannibal. 

“All right. What are you thinking of applying?” asks Alana, tilting her head slightly.

“A few things." Hannibal speaks quickly. "But before we begin, have you done this sort of thing before?”

“Not… not really,” admits Alana.

“ _Not really_? Do tell,” instructs Hannibal, his voice crisp.

“Well… there was one time… I let my date tie my hands to the bed. Loosely. With scarves. It was… all right,” remembers Alana, her voice calm. It _had_ been all right, too. Just strangely boring and she was confused and a little let down. She thought it would add something to the sex that night; she instead found herself thinking of other things instead. She’d never tried that again.

“You sound disappointed. It wasn’t what you thought it’d be?” asks Hannibal.

“No. I’d heard it was supposed to add spice or something,” murmurs Alana, stuttering slightly. Her cheeks pinked as she sighs. “It added nothing for me. I was hoping for something more and didn’t get it.”

Hannibal grins, wolfish. “I think I can give you that something more, Alana. But before that happens, we need to establish some ground rules.”

"I didn't know there were _rules_ involved," Alana remarks, her tone surprisingly sassy and teasing for being literally in the dark. 

Ignoring her, Hannibal continues. "These rules are not only for our safety, but for emotional and physical well-being. They should," he pauses, emphasizing each word carefully, "be taken very seriously." He begins to circle her, stopping to brush his fingers through her hair as he speaks over her shoulder. "Nothing further can happen tonight or any night until a safe word is chosen. This should be something you and I can easily remember, but something that won't slip into conversation unbidden. Think of one. We can also utilize a kind of spotcheck, especially if play leans towards the… intense. We have plenty of time to discuss options here, but a popular method uses the metaphor of a stop light. Green light means go, yellow light requests a moment to adjust, gather one's faculties, and so on."

He draws a fingertip from the back of Alana's elbow to her warm palm. "The particulars of what we might engage in are almost limitless. One thing that binds these is the idea of sensation. The sensation of being whipped, of being marked, of being punished, of being exposed… Neither of us needs to fear judgment in these requests or in participation. You and I are both familiar with the complexities of human desire and of human experience. Consider taboo the root that society has scrambled unsuccessfully to hide from the naked eye. By engaging with so-called forbidden desire, we free up our waking minds to pursue more… majestic pursuits."

By all appearances listening carefully, Alana herself seems surprised to twist her wrist and grasp Hannibal's hand. She turns to him -- to where his voice focuses -- and says simply, "Freud."

"Yes. I imagine Sigmund may have a thought or two on the matter."

"No," Alana corrects, blushing. "My safe word. Freud."

“What? Not Jung?” teases Hannibal, his lips turning up at Alana’s snort of laughter.

“Oh, aren’t you just sassy boots?” she grumbles. “I’ll stay with Freud for now. After all, a cigar sometimes is just a cigar, Dr. Lecter,” she continues in a clipped, lecturing tone. Alana then giggles. “Are there… are there things you wish to do?” she asks after a moment, her tone inquisitive.

“There are some. I’m interested in knowing what you want to do so I know how best to progress,” answers Hannibal.

“Then we shall do this quid pro quo, shall we not? You wish to know what I desire and I wish to know what you desire. How you wish to explore these scenarios with me. I am not going to simply take, Dr. Lecter. I also want to give,” explains Alana.

“That is the beauty of this, Alana,” says Hannibal, bending over to nip gently at Alana’s shoulder, certain from her shiver that she feels the sharpness of his teeth through the fabric. “You give me what I want. I take what you tell me and I act accordingly. Your pleasure and your pain becomes my focus. I want to experience your awakening. I want to see you break and rebuild yourself. I have no doubt it will be a worthy experience.”

“I don’t know what to say, Dr. Lecter. I’ve never thought of myself as worthy before,” admits Alana, the words slipping from her lips without her conscious thought.

“When we are through, you will be a weapon worth wielding, Alana. Someone to respect and fear, I promise you that. But for now… what would you like to do tonight? I have a few ideas in mind but I want to establish clear boundaries and rules. The safe word is one. The green light, yellow light, and red light are other safeguards. We are missing one element,” reminds Hannibal.

“Quid pro quo, Dr.. That is my firm boundary. I will tell you one thing I desire. You shall respond in turn and so forth. Or this goes no further,” dares Alana, barely breathing. She takes a quick, gasping breath and waits for his response.

“You are a bossy bottom, Alana Bloom. I’m not sure whether to encourage that or to discipline it out of you,” muses Hannibal.

“Perhaps a bit of both? I don’t think you want me to be completely compliant to your demands,” smiles Alana, her confidence restored in his answer.

“Ladies first,” murmurs Hannibal, moving to stand behind Alana, his body heat warming her.

“I… am alright with being restrained. I am alright with… certain punishments,” answers Alana.

“Certain punishments?” asks Hannibal. 

“I answered a question and half of another. Your turn,” encourages Alana, linking her fingers together, tightly. She doesn’t lean back against Hannibal and is proud of herself for that much self control.

“I am keen to try a riding crop on that fair skin of yours,” says Hannibal, tracing a line from Alana’s collarbone to the very top of her breasts with the tip of his finger. Alana feels it resonate low in her belly.

‘I… I would be OK with that. Just… have to build up to any force,” states Alana.

“Of course. That’s how it’s done. A little more and a little more until you finally let me know it’s enough. I am curious to see how much I can mark you, how bruised your skin can get before you tell me your safe word,” says Hannibal, his voice low. 

“I am also curious about a whip. But not a belt. Not a cane, or anything like a yardstick,” says Alana, shuddering.

“A whip is doable. I prefer a riding crop and whip; find them less base and less often tied to the childhood trauma we both see far too often," answers Hannibal. "You seem to consider them with distaste as well?" 

“Distaste, yes,” says Alana without elaborating further. “Your turn, Dr. Lecter.”

"Ah, but you were merely responding to my expression of desire, Alana. Though losing track is understandable, given the circumstances you now find yourself in."

Alana scowls, making a mental note to pay closer attention. She recounts the conversation, and to her frustration, Hannibal is right. She clears her throat, taking a moment to stretch her neck. She has grown tense, and feels the muscles pull. "We've touched on the idea, I think -- perhaps without my realizing the true implications -- but. I do like the idea of." Alana licks her lips. "Being in public."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, though Alana does not see it. "Being made to behave against type?"

"Something that isn't understandable to others, but that you and I know is… significant. Not necessarily up there with fucking in an alley, but. A test, I suppose." 

"Ah," Hannibal says, gently, having been given a fuller picture of what exactly Alana means. He touches her bracelet once again, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. "A performance of being owned, and of ownership." He smiles, lips tight. "You may have guessed that this is an idea that appeals to me. Influence. Control." A smile twitches at Alana's mouth, and it pleases Hannibal to see it. A model student, Ms. Bloom.

"And now I owe you a measure of my own heart." Hannibal takes Alana’s hand and leads her slowly over to the cross, allowing her to touch the intersection which makes an X. 

“What is this?” asks Alana, stroking the fine wood, her fingers feeling the tiny whorls in the grain and feeling the gloss of the finish.

“This is what is known as a St. Andrew’s Cross. There are different variations and forms. Some prefer steel or some other type of metal. Others like wood. Some are mounted on a sturdy base and can be spun around. Others are set up so the person is affixed to it and is hanging in the air. This one is very… plain. Simple, really. I have no need for anything fussy and I like the clean aesthetics,” explains Hannibal.

“It does feel like an X,” ventures Alana, moving her fingers over the shape.

“It is. It’s an X and is firmly mounted at the base. I will not suspend you nor will I twirl you around like a roulette ball. I will simply tie you to the cross and begin your training,” Hannibal says, a slight smile in his voice. "Right now, if you are amenable."

“Ah,” murmurs Alana, her imagination caught up in how she would feel, trussed to this wooden device, unable to move. Her cheeks flush as she thinks of Hannibal having her at his mercy, using the instruments they’d agreed upon on her body. "I am."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at the tell tale flush but doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, he tugs her hand over so it is against what Alana assumes is the upper part of the X. She feels him tie her to it, the ties silky smooth against her wrist. He ties her other arm as well, raising her hand and gently binding it with the silk tie. For now, the only point of connection Alana has is with the smooth wood against the back of her hands and wrists. Her arms are not raised uncomfortably, but they are linked above her head, shifting her balance.

“Well, now, Dr. Lecter. I do believe you have me where you want me,” Alana says, swallowing slightly. She can feel the dampness between her thighs and hopes he doesn’t smell her arousal.

Hannibal smiles. “I do, Miss Bloom. I do. Shall we begin? I could start with a riding crop and we can see how well you take orders. While we are both adjusting to this… new phase in our relationship, I propose that we progress slowly. Frequent checks and verbal communication.”

“I would be OK with that,” agrees Alana, twitching slightly in place.

She feels Dr. Lecter move away from her, his steps fading a bit as he walks over to what she assumes is the cabinet in the room. She hears the slight creak of the door as it opens and again as the door is shut. She stretches her hearing as much as she can; with her eyes blindfolded, she has four senses at her disposal. She strains to use the one and wonders how it will feel to have another tested.

She’s interrupted from her thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming back and she feels the heat of Dr. Lecter’s body as he stands near. 

“I will start slowly. At each stroke, you will count for me in the following manner. One, Sir, may I have another? That will let me know you want more. If at any time it is becoming too much, I want to hear yellow light. If at any time, you have reached your threshold, I want to hear your safe word. I do not know if you will sink into subspace right away, or if you will at all. But I will be watching your reactions. I may choose to stop at any time, as you may. If I feel you are too engulfed in what is happening, I will make sure you can still tell me your status. Is that satisfactory?” asks Hannibal.

Alana nods her head. “That is exactly what I would like, Dr. Lecter. Please,” she entreats him, her voice breathy with anticipation and need.

“Let us begin.” With Alana's blindfold still in place, Hannibal needs reserve no energy with maintaining his expression. He holds the crop loosely in his right hand, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with the weight and balance of the leather. With the smallest twitch of his wrist, the crop sings through the silent air and stops -- inches from Alana's back. She jerks, however, as if struck, and whimpers. 

"Dr. Lecter," she hisses, a note of warning underneath. 

"You are hardly in a position to _threaten_ , Ms. Bloom." Hannibal allows the crop to fall, slack against Alana's back, and drags it, impossibly slow, down to the slope of her ass. Her body shudders, drawing a smile from Hannibal. A smile he is glad that, for now, she cannot see. 

" _Please_ , sir," murmured Alana, biting her lip as the crop teased over her ass, nudging slightly between her legs.

“Please what, Alana?” asks Hannibal, his voice low and pitched so she has to concentrate to hear his words.

“Please…” she repeats, shaking her head.

Hannibal draws the crop back, gives it a slight swing that rotates it in mid-air and makes it sing like a doomed canary. He smacks Alana on her left buttock, the sound crisp in the quiet room.

Alana jerks. “One, sir. May I please have another?” Her voice is startled, but steady.

Hannibal’s response is a silky, “Good girl,” before he takes up the crop and establishes a rhythm that Alana falls into without hesitation. The crop rises and falls and Alana’s breath hitches and hiccups along with it. She can feel herself sliding into a static zone, a place where she feels submerged and safe. 

It’s almost like being flayed open but is a step away from pain that’s too overwhelming. Alana counts the strokes, her voice steady at first and then faltering as the pain catches up with her endorphins.

Hannibal murmurs, “Where are you?” as he smacks her again, just this side of too much and Alana hisses in a breath.

“Yellow light!” she gasps, rising out of subspace enough to feel the burn on her bottom and she takes a deep breath before resuming the count.

Hannibal resumes with the crop, laying lightly upon her buttocks, his eyes on her face and flickering down to her body, noting how her hips twitch and her nipples harden. 

Alana manages another three more counts before she gasps out, “Freud!” and lowers her head, the sweat trickling down the side of her face, her hair damp and curling.

Hannibal slides his hand through the strap of the crop, letting it dangle from his wrist. “What do you need, Alana?” he asks her, stepping closer to put a hand on her lower belly, another resting above the curve of her ass.

“I…” Alana tosses her head back, taking deep breaths, her long throat exposed to the dim light in the room, her skin gleaming with sweat.

Hannibal leans in, taking in the sight and scent of Alana’s arousal. He grasps the side of her face with cool fingers, keeping her chin tilted up.

Alana gasps as he licks a long stripe along her throat, following the line of her throat down to her collarbone where he nips playfully at the bones there.

“Tell me. What do you need?” asks Hannibal again, his other hand dipping lower, raising the edge of Alana’s dress up, exposing her thighs, his fingers brushing the top of her stockings.

Alana moans. “Please… please…” she opens her legs, thinking of nothing but his touch on her skin and the air cooling the wetness on her throat.

Hannibal traces careful fingers up Alana’s garters, touching the edges of the belt and then cupping her, his hand completely covering her panties. He strokes her, feeling her wetness through the fabric, hearing her breath catch and hitch with every touch.

“Please what, Alana? You were a very, very good girl tonight. I am pleased with you. Tell me what you desire most of all,” Hannibal whispers into her ear, his fingers paused at the top of her panties.

“This…," she gasps, "You… more.” She shifts her hips, arching her back as Hannibal moves down her body, his mouth sucking her nipples through her dress, his fingers stroking her through her panties. He spreads her legs apart, kneeling between them.

Hannibal breathes in Alana’s scent, her arousal, a thick musk that emanates from he. His mouth waters. 

He pulls up her dress completely, bunching it around her hips with strong hands and pulls down her panties before he licks at her pussy, tasting the juices, hearing her moan as his tongue shifts from tentative to aggressive, pressing inside.

Hannibal continues to taste, one hand holding up her dress, the other slowly fingering her, opening her up with delicate precision. Her thighs are wet with her juices and his saliva. She is moaning and panting, her body trembling as he pushes her further and further.

Hannibal feels her tighten around his fingers, feels the hard knot of her clit quiver and Alana cries out, her voice echoing in the room. Hannibal continues to fuck her with his fingers, continues to lap at her juices until she shifts her hips, trying to close her legs. 

"Yellow… light," Alana gasps, hissing. 

He takes the cues and stands up, licking the last of her from his lips. He presses his lips against hers, feeling her tongue flicker over his mouth, tasting her own juices on his lips. "I will undo the ties now, Alana. You may rest against me if you find your body too weak." Alana nods, still taking sharp breaths of air. In order to reach the ties, Hannibal presses against her, easily ignoring the shift in Alana's breath pattern. There is no doubt that she has felt his arousal, and he does nothing to try and hide it. The ties come undone quickly in his hands, and as he suspected, Alana nearly drops before Hannibal manages to catch her around her waist. 

"Are you able to articulate what you need now, Ms. Bloom?"

She shakes her head, the static having shifted into a kind of blanket. Everything is muffled, now. Like outdoors after a snowfall. "That was…"

"New," Hannibal suggests. "We must respect your body and mind and allow adequate time for you to adjust to this. To what it teaches you about yourself, and about me." Still clutching her, Hannibal brushes Alana's hair back and uses the opportunity to slip the blindfold off of her head. 

Alana's gaze up at him, eyes wide and blinking, is one of wonder and speechlessness. “That… that was subspace, wasn’t it? I mean… just going under and. I could feel everything but it felt like… I was in this quiet zone. This safe place, deep inside.”

“Yes. It’s a place where many subs go and many _like_ to go. I hope you liked the experience,” says Hannibal, not above fishing for information.

“Yes… it was very nice. And so was…” Alana frowns, then, glancing down at the front of Hannibal’s trousers. He is still showing an unmistakable erection, the fabric of his trousers tenting up slightly.

“What is it, Alana?” asks Hannibal, the glint of amusement in his eye.

She meets his eye with aplomb, though her cheeks are pink. “Thank you for that but… what about yourself?”

“Oh. Well, now. That can wait for next time. I do look forward to instructing you, Alana,” purrs Hannibal, his lips curving into a smile.

Alana sighs and shakes her head, touching her bracelet once. “I suppose, then, I should go. It was a pleasurable evening, Dr. Lecter. Very informative as well.”

Hannibal gives her an old fashioned bow from the waist. “I aim to educate, Alana. It pleases me that I’ve done so, even here." He straightens and looks her in the eye. "Perhaps you would enjoy some water back in the kitchen, while you collect yourself. It is not unheard of that a beginner -- or even one well-versed in this lifestyle -- needs time after a session. I will allow you privacy, if you want it, but know that I am as much your support as I am here to push you."

A small exhale betrays Alana's quickly cobbled put-together exterior. "Water would be nice. I wasn't prepared for how dehydrating this would be." A joke, a small tease. There she is, the Alana who Hannibal has grown to care for. 

"After you," he suggests, making a gesture back upstairs. Shaky step by shaky step, Alana takes the lead, comforted by Hannibal's hand at her back. He is there to comfort her, to support her. This, too, is sensation. 

Once they reach the kitchen, Hannibal leaves her to find a seat while he pours glasses of ice water for both of them. When he sits across from her and pushes a glass in her direction, Alana is looking down at her dress in dismay. "I'm a bit of a wreck," Alana says, laughing. 

"You are a work of art, Alana. Never believe otherwise."

She pinks at the cheeks and takes a relieved drink. "You, ah, enjoyed yourself, too?"

"There is very little I enjoy more," Hannibal replies, answering honestly.

Alana smiles up at him and he tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear, enjoying the silky feel of the strand against his fingers. It reminds him of the silk ties of the St. Andrew’s Cross.

He takes a sip of his water and smiles at her. He can hardly wait until the next time she visits his home. His mind begins setting plans into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you have enjoyed our "little" adventure. The next piece of this puzzle will be posted as a new story within the world of [degustation](http://archiveofourown.org/series/60285). If you would like to continue along with us, please Subscribe to the series. Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

>  _lagniappe_ \- (lan-YAP) - Used primarily in southern Louisiana and southeast Texas, the word lagniappe refers to an "unexpected something extra.”
> 
> \--
> 
> The Explicit rating applies only to the final chapter. The rest of this story should be considered Mature.


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